


Blood In The Water

by Double_Moth



Category: Ed Edd n Eddy
Genre: KevEdd - Freeform, M/M, Reverse! AU, Reverse!KevEdd - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:50:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7473951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Double_Moth/pseuds/Double_Moth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts as a lustful game becomes far more serious than either intended. Some things just can't be unlearned, and even predators feel pain. Role Reversal/Powerplay. Bullying. Strangely manipulative Kevin. Absent parents, sad, confused motivations and steadily mounting angst. Written for a Reverse! AU that has long since fizzled out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood In The Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began. 
> 
> Consider all this; and then turn to the green, gentle, and most docile earth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a strange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half-known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle, thou canst never return!”

I can say with the utmost clarity that I know when it started. Whatever “it” was, however, was still up in the air. It could have been anything from the vaguest intrigue to the soft flutterings of some foreign, misplaced lust. Youth was confusing that way. Nonetheless, it had surpassed perplexing and inconvenient and wandered into the realm of being mentally exhausting. There was just no fighting it.  


I was attracted to the one person I could honestly say I hated.  


And it was not as devastating as it should have been.  


It started with the most subtle things. Just little observations. Nothing substantial in the grand scheme of things, but at the time they felt rather jarring and...oddly important. As if I would be quizzed on every tiny revelation at some later date. But that date never came, and the facts remained.  


Eddward had the tiniest twinge in his left eye after reading for too long.  


Eddward cut his nails into crescents, not straight across.  


Eddward, unlike me, had several of the same hat. Some older and rattier, some quite new. But never without one.  


Eddward crossed his ankles when he sat. Rather elegant for someone so awful, I thought.  


Eddward's eyes were blue. Almost. Changing like the sea. It had never occurred to me to look so closely at the eyes that struck fear into me. But one day, pinned to my locker, heart thumping like a trapped rabbit, I just happened to...see. What might have been a whimper of defeat stopped in its tracks. And I just stared. 

Quietly. Intently.  


And, for whatever reason, this seemed to bother Eddward. Perhaps it did not bother him so much as unnerve him. He had the briefest flicker of confusion in his eyes. All I could do was stare and bask in the glory of this most insignificant of his personal details. Like the weight of knowledge had broken me. Eddward even said as much.  


“I think that Pumpkin here is malfunctioning.”  


He then muttered something about not being sufficiently entertained, and led his gaggle of goons away. I had done something no one else had done. I had caught him off guard. And what a powerful feeling it was.  


The high of gaining the upper hand did not last as long as I hoped it would. His teasing seemed to swell in response to being temporarily baffled. He was much more inclined to spontaneously appear and harass me. Much more inclined to yell sharp insults across the hallway. But the one thing that I noticed the most was the touching. For every inappropriate gesture, every wandering, groping hand that I had to deal with before, there were at least twice that afterward. He was never above a quick ass grab as I walked down the hallway, but now it seemed as if his hand lingered just a little longer, squeezed just a little harder before moving on.  


But I had become immune to those predatory touches over time. I barely even jumped anymore. This time was no different. Until one day when things seemed to change. The touches were no longer sharp and sudden. No longer so rough. It was then that things took an agonizing turn.  
Just as he was passing by, he would let his long, soft fingers trail along my arm. It left prickling trails all along my skin. Even through the warm wool of my sweater, I could feel it. Just toward the end of their trail, his fingertips would linger on the bare skin of my hand. My heart would just seize in my chest. And he would add insult to injury with that painfully arrogant sneer cast over his shoulder.  


It was ruinous.  


Almost intimate.  


It bordered on terrifying.  


But I was yet to receive my real shock.  


I had stayed after school for club activities. Late. Alone. First mistake.  


Nazz had gone home early. She had apologized profusely, and looked very worried as she looked back to tell me goodbye.  
I had assumed Eddward had left, saying as I had seen the rest of his goons leave much earlier. After all, it was a Friday. The pool closed early, and everyone left campus as quickly as possible. Second mistake.  


I was not paying attention. I was tired, and my vigilance was not exactly stellar after having been on campus for over ten hours. Third, and most fatal, mistake.  


Like a shark smelling blood in water, he appeared behind me. As if a vast, terrible ocean had birthed him for the express purpose of preying on me. He just knew. And he was there, suddenly, dreadfully close. Before I could turn around, I felt it. Something at the small of my back. I had a moment of extreme panic as the thought of a weapon ran though my head, until I felt the warm, even spread of his fingers. He leaned his horrible mouth to my ear. I could hear and feel the wetness of his breath. The rasp of his voice before it even formed words.  


“You are acting suspiciously.”  


It felt so strange to have him linger behind me, to have him sit in my space for so long without rough or callous treatment. But the strangest thing was how quickly my fear dissolved. His voice in my ear, a hot whisper of promised pursuit and intangible threat, tickled some foreign chord in me.  


Thrill.  


A shiver was beginning to build in my legs. Somewhere within the weeks of anticipation and worry, the horror at his growing intimacy, I had known this might happen. But I had never imagined the feelings that he would drag out of me.  
His hand slid along my spine. My shoulders dipped back, just slightly. His fingers ghosted over the prominent vertebrae through my sweater, leaving sizzling trails of impossible heat. He said nothing. Just hovered near the sensitive shell of my ear, dragging those slim fingers all the way up to my shoulder blades.  


He smelled like motor oil and aftershave. Like sweat and chlorine.  


I shuddered. Not a shudder of disgust or revulsion. Or one of shock. This was something else. Something scarier. Dirtier. It was a slithering feeling. One I wished I could destroy with logic or reason. But there was nothing I could do.  


I was excited.  


I actually made a soft hiss through my teeth.  


And he froze. Every part of him seemed to lock up. As if he too could not process the strangeness of the situation. He did not move in to take advantage of my vulnerability. He did not make a lewd comment or a snide remark.  


For once, Eddward said absolutely nothing. And walked away. He was just as confused as I was. For once in all these years, we were on even ground.  
Perhaps this was control. Mingled with the strange pull of uncertainty. Whatever it was, I could no longer hate it. It was power. Transcendence even. I had left him speechless. Imagine that.

It was the beginning of the end by that point. His attention only increased. And the intensity of my excitement boiled just under the surface, hidden by an oddly nonplussed demeanor. There was an inevitability to all of it. We were building toward a feeding frenzy. Carnage, chaos, thrashing water. And all the blissful stillness left in its wake. The nightmares of being circled endlessly by the hideous threat he presented were long gone. Replaced with the foreign flashing red of fresh blood. I was just waiting for him.  


It happened in the way I planned it. I conveniently deserted my company late one afternoon. And roamed the halls. I had laid the trap. Loaded the dice. Stacked the deck. He just didn't know. I should have felt some level of disgust with myself. But all I could feel was powerful, even godlike. I let myself be lost in it. 

I had moved past guilt.  


He appeared from a sea of shadows, but this time, I knew his every move. And I did nothing to stop him. I was pinned in no time. He wasted no moment in trying to intimidate me, as I tried my best to fake fear and shock. He stared me down. There was a silent determination in his gaze. No words, just those cold eyes heating me from the inside out. He looked angry, intense. There was a burning in his eyes that was brighter and hotter than usual.  


Again, he said nothing. As if words failed him or eluded him. He just hardened his gaze.  
I felt the warm weight of his hand on my stomach. Traveling further down. Trailing over the rough fabric of my pants, again dragging those unfairly delicate fingers in lewd rows over my body. He cupped me in his hand. Not unlike the indecent groin grabbing he had done in the past. But this was different. 

Unimaginably different.  


It was gentle.  


I did not think that such a bloodthirsty creature was capable of such a thing.  


He moved with deliberate, seductive movements. Dredging up all the horrid bliss I had come to accept as some deviant power game. I didn't look away from him. I looked straight into his eyes, my breath labored and my face red. My hands gained no purchase grasping at the cold metal of a locker. He gritted his teeth and squeezed me. Daring me to squirm, daring me to run, to squeal, to show any twinge of discomfort.  


I would not let him win.  


The warm weight of his palm and the sweet pressure of his fingers were already causing me to stiffen. It was well worth the delicious twinge of shock resurfacing in his eyes. Then, his expression softened. And he leaned in closer to my face.  


“May I ask you for a kiss?”  


That...was not what I was expecting. In the slightest.  


“You're asking?”  


“Yes, I am. You should appreciate the fact that I am considering your consent.”  


Was this a game? Was he testing my reaction, gauging my response in preparation for some reason? Had all these weeks been leading up to simply asking for a kiss? His advances had always been heavy-handed, sudden. No regard for my comfort. Why then did a romantic gesture, in his twisted mind, require permission? 

And why did I suddenly appreciate the inquiry?  


Words were obscured by a cloud of desire, blurred with confusion.  


I just nodded.  


Even when I had him right where I wanted him, our movements were surreal. As if we were on another plane of existence, and I was watching a dream unfold from a distance. Shame and regret no longer existed. I would conquer him by dissolving into his arms. The prospect should have been mind-blowing. But there was only action. Thought had no room in our rendezvous.  


It took him forever to close his eyes as he leaned in. And I refused to close mine. He gazed into me until the bitter end.  
I was not expecting the tenderness I received. I had anticipated something bruising, brutal, lustful. Perhaps even desired it. But that was not what happened. The kiss was far from chaste or simple, but it was still full of softness. I was rather static at first, having worried about the need to endure a rough kiss. But the terrible fondness with which he kissed me somehow made me more comfortable.  


So I did the unthinkable.  


I kissed him back.  


He was a magnificent kisser. Somehow I wasn't surprised. His lips were full of flickering fire and provocative motion. The way he kissed me was so deliciously human, so delightfully fragile that I almost forgot who was doing it.  


Almost.  


I had kissed very few people in my life. Mostly clumsy affairs that I never mentioned again. But I tried to fake experience, not wanted to be outdone. I followed his movements, trying to imitate them as well as invent my own motions. My insides swam with warmth. I became more aware of his hand pressing into me. I actually groaned. I made up for my submissive inclination by biting at his bottom lip.  


I opened my eyes just in time to see his eyes widen just slightly. The shock barely lasted a second.  


He grasped my wrists, and pulled them up over my head. Slow, careful, as if worried about roughness. But still fighting for power. I could not allow him to get ahead.  


I didn't fight the rush that tore through me. Something about the simple act of him holding me captive with the most considerate of force excited me. And I let him know. I longed for that shocked expression. I leaned my head forward and let the tip of my tongue dance over his bottom lip. He let out a sharp startled breath.  


He let me slide my tongue just past those wonderful lips. My brazen entreaty earned me a deeper, rougher kiss as he pushed me back into the locker. His mouth was so pliable, so warm. A harsh ripple of pleasure made me tremble. I was glad for the reassertion of power. I had no experience with deeper kissing. I let him take over, let him follow me down, and press his body against mine. Fire licked me up and down as I felt hard, hot flesh press into my own. He ground into me with a long groan. I thought I would fall apart at the loveliness of that sound as well as the lewd feelings that burned in my guts.  


Oh God. This was beyond revenge, beyond acquiescence, beyond power games. I wanted him. Badly.  


He pulled away. And looked at me with the most wonderfully weakened eyes. They were lustful, half-lidded, though still predatory and domineering. He looked so solemn. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and gently pulled my head back.  


“What is this game?” His words lacked the eloquence I was used to. It was a hard, no-nonsense question.  


The smirk that lit up my face was a familiar one. One I had learned from him.  


“This is your game, Eddward. I'm just learning how to play.” The voice was not my own. It came from my deep, insidious, licentious pit inside me. It was gravelly, rumbling, daring.  


He growled. And I just smiled.  


He pulled my hair back and bit into my neck. I arched my back, feeling like I would come out of my tingling skin. When he pulled away, I was panting slightly.  


“Best 2 out of 3, dork.” There was that tough demeanor again. But he didn't fool me. His lips were flushed, his face red, every part of him flustered. And, just like before, he walked away.  


I wanted to laugh. I could feel it in my chest. A cartoonish declaration of victory rumbling to escape. But I didn't. I wiped my mouth and smiled. Watching him swagger away. I swam through shark-infested waters and survived. I had waited for years to feel so powerful. Nothing could have been so intoxicating.  
I would not let him win.

I hadn’t expected anything to change. I would have been a fool to think it would. I expected no softness, no mercy, no relenting in the stream of torment I had come to expect... He was just as crude, just as violent, just as unrelentingly inappropriate.  


To some extent, nothing was different. But there was something about him now. An air about him that no one else seemed to detect. And if they did pick up on it, who would dare say anything? The weight of our affair was not lost on him. His eyes held a gleam that they hadn't before. They held the scar of a glorious, unexpected defeat. Perhaps even a smidgen of respect.  


I dare say even fear.  


How perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What starts as a lustful game becomes far more serious than either intended. Some things just can't be unlearned, and even predators feel pain. Role Reversal/Powerplay. Bullying. Strangely manipulative Kevin. Absent parents, sad, confused motivations and steadily mounting angst. Written for a Reverse! AU that has long since fizzled out.
> 
> All chapter summary quotes are from Moby Dick.


	2. Sea Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is the easiest thing in the world for a man to look as if he had a great secret in him.” 

The minutia and tedium of the school year swallowed the next few months. As if a wave of nonchalance had covered the school. The heat of the encroaching summer was like an oven, and the air conditioners were sporadic in their desire to function. It was a wonder anyone was awake, let alone functional. Without the bite of February, and the vague threat of snow to sharpen the air, staring out the window only served to prove that, yes, it was in fact that goddamn hot. Even the pavement seemed to be silently screaming.

I thought of Eddward sizzling under all that black clothing. Sitting with his legs up like a delinquent, absentmindedly fanning himself with a sheaf of papers. He tugged at his collar, the gleam of flesh slick with moisture exposed for a few inescapable moments. 

Shit. 

His eyes roamed to me, his expression made late and half-hearted by the laze of heat. Then he smiled. Grinned. All slim line of perfect teeth as he tugged his shirt to reveal the hard curve of his clavicle nestled in a bed of toned muscle. 

Fuck. 

My eyes could not have moved away quick enough. Not that it mattered. The low, almost inaudible chuckle that met my ears told me all I needed to know. No use denying it. I would have to face it later. There would be no backing down. Our encounters had thinned over the months, from weekly messy things to longer, more exhausting encounters. Everything in moderation, of course. Nothing more than intense, sloppy kissing and one or two clumsy handjobs. Always messy. Rushed. What started as a fire was now an ember. As if the summer had burned us out. 

There was no denying it. My assertion was waning. Not by much. But enough to make me defensive, hesitant. Something about our exchanges had changed. And I could not quite pinpoint what. It was a fragmented affair to begin with. All hissing, limp threats made into searing truths. Posturing. But lately, he seemed so...eager. Wanton. He seemed to savor the less than skillful way I touched him. Though I was hardly familiar with handling a dick that wasn't my own, he didn't seem to mind. He leaned into kisses with a fervor that I had to work very hard to match. He arched into my touches as if my fingers were full of heroin. He damn near melted into my touch. Like he needed it. 

That raised a burning question. Did I need it? Did this game need to be brought to a close, or could I use the lull in our encounters to my advantage and just pretend that it never happened? Just move on, and let the laze of summer and schoolwork swallow my thoughts? Where was all this going? Did it matter? There was no doubt that our encounters were passionate. But to what end? The blind, fleeting passion of youth? Or something more? 

What else could it be but the rush of power and pleasure? 

The silence encouraged by the heat made me uneasy. The teacher's voice was swallowed by an invisible cloud, as if some unseen, energy-sapping force had simply moved the sound of earshot. And no one could be bothered to retrieve it. I was beginning to wonder if even the teacher would also rather be naked in front of seven industrial fans. 

Nazz seemed to have melted into her desk, her cheek making a sticky sound as a loud noise startled her from her daze. A pencil dropped by a student who could no longer stand the quiet. It sounded like a bomb had gone off. 

I had no idea that time could move so slowly. The heat did not help. It made me wonder if the end-of-the-day bell was in fact going off at all. 

The room swam. I was distracted, even as the class, with delayed enthusiasm, began to file out of the room. They moved outside of me, just a droning mass of bodies. I waited for them to move out, until only three remained. Even the familiar silhouettes were a blur of noise and color. Scarcely people, merely thoughts. The only clear figure was that of Eddward, his eye glancing back, flashing like sea glass atop black sand. But he only favored me with his glance for a moment before he moved into the noise. And faded from view. 

It was not a challenge. Or a threat. It was merely a glance. 

What did that mean? We had been playing this game for far too long for it to mean nothing. No. I knew better than to dismiss it. Eddward's subtleties, his...quirks were something that I had taken deep interest in yet I was still decoding his gazes. At times, they were fleeting, sometimes lingering. One day threatening, another day soft. But always piercing. Striking. They forced this thoughtfulness on me. Made me stop and wonder. Or in this case, worry. 

I was only vaguely aware of Nazz and Nat approaching, but they were both watching me intently. They had seen something unfolding in the past few months. A sudden rush of confidence, much to their pleasant surprise, then the brooding listlessness that replaced it. They had eyes, after all. Nat had favored me with sideways glances. That little blink-and-you'll-miss-it, eye-cutting thing he did when he caught wind of something suspicious. At the same time, Nazz's lips often pursed when my mind set to wandering. They were aware, but they had not been very outright about asking. Perhaps because I had not been very forthcoming, but had not shown any truly alarming behavior. Just...fatigue. 

Nathan Kat Goldberg was no fool, and Nazz, despite her laid-back manner, had the social intelligence to put any socialite to shame. And, between the two of them, there was no shortage of empathy. I could see it in their faces. They were evaluating, but they had no idea where to start or what to ask. 

For all they knew, it could be anything. 

But the fact remained that they knew. All that remained was to figure out the cause. 

Nat's voice pierced the veil of quiet. 

“Yo-o-o-o, Kev! The king has spoken!” 

I turned my head with great effort, and let my eyes fall on him as slowly as time would allow. His raised hand drooped, and he looked genuinely shocked, if only for a moment. Quiet. I seemed to be having that effect on the most ostentatious of people. The surge of power from before was absent. I must have looked a lot less than stellar to warrant such a reaction. 

“You look...dead. Like, at least 3 days kinda dead. You feeling okay?” 

“Mmm. Tired.” 

He turned to Nazz. “Impaired language, lethargy. He's a zombie. We'll have to shoot him.” 

“No one is shooting anybody. What he needs is rest and air-conditioning, just like we do.” I could see beads of sweat still clinging to her forehead. Her face looked blotchy, red. She had not bothered with makeup that morning. No sense in it, it would have melted within minutes. She was in a good mood, despite the heat. If it had been anyone else, her good mood would have soured my own even further. 

“You two seem...chipper. Anything I should know?” 

I really did sound like a zombie. The heat was liquefying my very syllables. 

“Well, if you must know, oh grumpy one, we're meeting Marie for ice cream. And she said that you are invited, so long as you don't make her pay again.” 

I rolled my eyes, an action I did not often indulge in.“Please. No one made her pay. I just happened to be broke that day.” 

Nazz laughed. “That day and every day. We all know where your money goes.” 

I smiled. It was a begrudging thing, but it unfolded nonetheless. I appreciated their concern. I really did. And the soft humor in their voices really dampened my gloom. But there was a pull. A need to take a detour. To avoid them just long enough to swim out to sea. And return when things made more sense. 

“I'll pass. I need to go home and sleep. After I find where Eddward stashed my notebook.” 

That was, without a doubt, the quickest and stupidest lie I had ever told in my life. But it rolled off my tongue with such sinister ease. A hissing unease settled in my stomach. 

Nazz sighed. “Again? It's not in the janitor's closet this time, I hope.” 

I stared ahead. “I doubt it went far. He hasn't been himself lately..” 

Nazz paused. Physically, noticeably paused. Not just in speech, but in every other mannerism. I could see the gears turning rather suddenly in her head. As if something was sliding into place. Our some big red flag was waving atop my head. She recovered quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid the ever-vigilant eyes of Nat. Her eyes looked to the side for a moment, before she spoke again. 

“Hey,” she said, a sharp, but kind authority in her voice. “Go straight home after.” 

“Yes,” Nat said, louder than necessary. “There are fanged beasts about! Jabberwocks, and other manxsome foes.” His voice was chipper, but it trailed off, and his mouth turned down a bit. An odd edge to such a ridiculous warning. Damn that Lewis Carroll. I had to smile at that one. 

“I'll be fine, guys. A little misplaced notebook is nothing I can't handle. I'll text you both when I get home.” 

Nazz looked back as they left, and I had to summon a smile again as I waved to her. 

It hurt to lie. Hurt to stay behind. But there was also a relief in it. 

It was childish, really, the rebellious urge to linger just because I was told not to. But there was more to it then juvenile defiance. An ulterior motive. A desire to seek danger like a wounded or rabid animal. He was among these halls somewhere. Sometimes I wondered if he ever really left. I was stricken with the need to seek him out, perhaps to catch him disappearing into the walls, or see him appear, phantasmal and seething, and seize me by the throat. There was no middle ground. I would either go home or find him. 

But the heat made me feel like doing neither. 

The only relief I could imagine would have been the pool. And that was his territory. Even in my new boldness, I could not quite find the courage to walk directly into his jaws. That would have crossed the line from suspicious to suicidal. 

And, yet, the audacity of such an action...it had a certain appeal to it. 

Hmm. 

The trip through the locker room was a tense one. It was as quiet and clean as a hospital. Eerily so. I was used to the noise and clutter of many bodies milling about. Voices shouting, echoing. If I had not been so unnerved, it might have been a refreshing change. I listened, and heard splashing. It made me jump a little at the sudden noise. The initial anxiety eventually wound down, and I gingerly poked my head out of the door. He was where I thought he would be. 

Standing on the side of the pool, like Poseidon looking out at the vast, cerulean sea. Poised like a statue, hands on his goggles, lost in thoughts of his own. 

The very form of him was...unfair. He was almost completely exposed. Just the pull of a less-than-modest garment to cover him. Wet, black material pulling at slim hips. My eyes wandered over every inch. Muscles like water, just as sleek and rippling as the blue, peaking waves. Skin made dry, but clear by the chlorine. The hard, determined look of an athlete, with the measured brutality of a predator slithering just beneath. 

With a deep, audible breath, he dove off the side. I was taken aback at his grace, his alacrity. Watching him swim was like observing some sacred ritual. Like some hapless mortal had stumbled on bathing nymphs. He was liquid in his motions, pagan in his abandon as he surfaced. And clueless to my observation, as far as I could tell. 

That new thrill tore through me. Laced with a voyeuristic delight. His devilish grin haunted the back of my eyes. How different it was from the stern intensity on his face now. And how odd that he should look so pained. 

Malevolent intent, a glorious form, the intensity of his eyes. All in odd conjunction with a look of grief, and a frown of dissatisfaction. 

Unfair. Unfair. Unfair. 

Whatever resilience I had lost before resurfaced. Like a fin through still water, but without the siren call of dread. Filled with a misplaced venom. A wandering anger finally finding its home. 

I was not going to lose to such a disgracefully perfect being. 

The violent need to find him waned, and all that remained was his image, perpetual and taunting, sitting behind my eyes. And that brief, pained look playing over and over as I ducked back into the locker room. 

I left. Unceremoniously, discreetly, though with a profound delay so as not to run into him. I had an odd, uneasy feeling that was only matched by my uncomfortable exhilaration. Not that it mattered. A creature of shadow has ways of staying one step ahead. He was waiting. Leaned against a streetlamp near the road. His car was nowhere in sight. Every rational part of me wanted to stop in my tracks or scale the school building in fear. But there was a challenge in his stance, and deep, searing ambiguity to his outward stare. And it made me shiver all over. 

He noticed me. His demeanor didn't change. All I could do was move forward. As soon as I reached him, with a modest buffer of a few feet between us, I simply stood in awkward silence. I watched his head turn with measured movements, watched the long curve of his neck, the smooth line of his jaw... 

“Why do you watch me?” The question emerged almost immediately, without hesitation or introduction. 

“How did you know I was-” 

“Your shoes. They squeak on the wet floor. If you had removed them like any civilized person upon entering the locker room, you would have gone unnoticed.” 

Was that his usual observation, or one reserved for me? 

His eyes dissected me. I swallowed. After a long, incisive silence, he seemed to accept my lack of an answer. He shifted his weight to another foot. His hair was still wet. I could see it hanging just below the brim of his hat, the back of his neck trailing moisture into his jacket. The sun was beginning to move. A few scarce clouds darkened. He stared into the distance with quiet intensity, the fading light making him look older, ephemeral. But tired. 

He always looked tired. 

“Come closer. I need to speak with you.” 

That didn't sound like a command. Nor did it sound like a request. It lay in the middle, as unreadable as those sea glass eyes. His voice was soft like the hot wind. But his eyes were still just as startling. I couldn't quite shake the feeling they gave me. Like a sparrow in the gaze of a cobra. Eventually, the anxiety waned, and I, in my new-found bravery, walked closer to him. Bravery or foolishness. 

The streetlamp gasped awake. Somewhere, thunder threatened and boomed. 

I don't know what possessed me to listen. What caused me to take pause and hear him out. Perhaps it was the way the light of the streetlamp made him look hollow and harmless. The way it carved the trenches beneath his eyes deeper, darker. 

“What is all this for?” 

“What is-” 

“Stop. Don't be coy. You know what I mean.” 

There was a sharpness in his voice, an embittered tone that I had not heard before. As if I had offended him. If I had offended him, that meant that he cared. That my actions were effecting him on some personal level. That thought scared me more than I thought it could. 

“Tell me,” he said, his tone sibilant, yet strained. “Where are you leading me? Where will we both be when this is over?” 

I swallowed. Something about the weight of those words didn't sit well with me. But I answered as honestly as I could. 

“Does it matter?” 

“I guess we'll see, won't we, pumpkin?” 

There it was. That insidious crackle, that lilting sharpness. It gave me delicious chills. It reminded me of not too long ago. When I saw his eyes for the first time. When I felt his lips on my neck, his wandering hands. How warm and forbidden it all was. 

He cracked a grin, then stood up straight. He sighed, and the grin turned into something dark and sad. Something secret and vulnerable. Something I didn't think he was capable of. 

“Walk me home, Kevin.” 

No. 

No. 

NO. 

You are not allowed to say my name. Not with that tone. Commanding, yet entreating, and disgustingly needy. His eyes turned to me again. Perhaps I was deluding myself, but I could have sworn I saw desperation in those eyes. What did that mean in the carnal context of his usual behavior? The dissolving of the vague threat of his presence made way for something far more confusing. Convoluted. Cloudy. He had eyes like a threatened creature about to spill ink to obscure themselves. Just for a moment. 

Fear crept through me. Fear on the tail of concern, and, eerily, a stray buzz of empathy. 

He began to walk forward, and I, like a fool, followed close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tides change. People change. The world moves ever on.
> 
> All chapter summary quotes are from Moby Dick.


	3. Breath Before The Plunge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

I had always wondered what it would be like to live near the sea. To have its constant motion so near, its salty musk in every draft. To have the wet air always calling, and to hear the gulls crying listlessly, incessantly. There was a certain lustiness to it all... A dreadful, lovely abandon. Its endless swaying, its fathoms darkening under cloak of night, ever vague in their threats. But so bold in their entreaties. Foamy fingers granting songs of welcome. The sea was ancient, vast, infinitely receptive. Beautiful in all its danger, dancing beneath sun and moon alike.

I had never even been to the beach... Perhaps I had formed a romance about it, just a fancy, an insubstantial wish...But something about the stray rain and the dense rising of petrichor around me teased these thoughts to the forefront of my mind. As I watched his pale shadow cut through the early night ahead of me. 

As dark and foreboding as the ocean. 

The cul-de-sac was dark with clouds above, with the premature dusk of storms, and the echoing sounds of the sea threatening to close in. It did not look like the same place that night. It was so quiet, but so wakeful. Laying in suspended motion. Like the Red Sea had parted to let us pass, and swallowed everything as it did. The evening was so surreal, so sudden. The dark was vast. Alive. Rippling with discontent and restlessness. And here we were in the middle of it all. 

Lost at sea. 

He stopped abruptly, and I tried not to show how my heart had jumped in my chest when he did. He had been walking so far ahead of me that I wondered who was walking who home. But after he halted, without any signal, he took a deep, pointed breath and turned to look at me. 

“Do you know why I let you come with me?” 

No, actually. And I have no idea why I agreed to it either. I couldn't really explain my behavior, other than writing it off as a compulsion, or a whim. Either option indicated foolhardiness on my part. As well as stupidity. But I had been focused on seeking him, for some nebulous purpose. I had been driven by a phantom sense of power, a misleading urgency, but I still could not recognize what my logic had been. Logic aside, the way he said it seemed to imply that I had no sway over the matter. That he had allowed me to pursue him. But I knew better. Even so, I decided to be honest and straightforward. 

“No.” 

“I thought as much... You seemed more eager than I anticipated. You are full of surprises, after all.” The end of his sentence seemed to curl up, the soft, familiar lilt of his voice creeping into it. I had wondered where it had gone. And now that it had arrived, it was almost overwhelming. Incisive and chilling, betraying his calmer exterior, but giving me a sense of just how out-of-place it was. His confidence was intimidating before, but now it just struck me as thin. Forced. Feigned. Even the spark of his eyes that accompanied it did nothing to convince me otherwise. 

But it still sent the tiniest of shivers through me. 

It was gone within seconds. His face grew solemn, silent. 

He said,“It is...strange how things work out, isn't it?” 

The air grew quiet. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it is...” 

We shared a moment of clarity, a very brief mental intimacy, before I spoke again. 

“I'm not one to give up easily. And neither are you. I figured you were just seeing things through, seeing where all this goes... Whatever that means...” 

He dug his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, casting a glance to the ground, abandoning his usual towering stance. Instead, he stood rather awkwardly, his shoulders slightly hunched. Still brutal in presence, but breaking eye contact like a nervous, pacing panther. The lapse in his predatory stature did not last long. Eventually, he stood tall again, and his eyes locked with mine. 

“I assure you, I do not keep your company out of obligation. I do not linger when there is nothing I find interesting. I am intrigued by you. You are...different.” 

I watched the way his tongue caressed the gap in his teeth as he spoke, watched him form those silky, uncanny words. Their silver implications trickled through me, my brain reeling to see such a mercurial creature being thoughtful, vulnerable. His sterling words were nothing new, but he had dropped the air of arrogance that had once gave them such a sting. This statement was important, and it pained him to say it. 

I should have enjoyed his difficulty, his immense hesitance over such a simple conversation, but I could not avoid the dreadful siren song that filled the air. Such was the suspense he held me in. The sky rumbled, enough to shake some nearby windows. The storm was creeping closer, and the air grew thicker as both of us stood poised in a graceless stalemate. It wasn't until I let out a gasp at a particularly bright flash of lightning that he spoke at all. 

“What's wrong, pumpkin, scared of a little lightning? Strange that electricity a hundred miles away scares you more than what is right in front of you.” 

I let out an exasperated huff of air. 

“I'm not scared of lightning, and I'm not... scared of you.” 

The air between us didn't change as much as I thought it would when we both finally said the words out loud. We'd both had our monologues, given our confessions, in the way that one would expect. But there was no thunderclap, no torrential downpour, no collective gasp as the facade came crashing down. They were just sentences, just statements. And, in my case, a staggering collection of words spoken by a mumbling idiot who had freely wandered into the open sea with a stab wound. And though I thought his eyes flashed for a second, after a moment or two, it was over, and all he did was make a noncommittal noise and keep walking. If anything, it made the walk more awkward as I fumbled through my brain for a decent follow-up. I found nothing. In the end, he was the one to break the silence, only to be ambiguous and evasive. 

“We feel fear for a reason, Kevin. It tells us when to run.” 

“Does it look like I'm running?” 

His head turned and his eyes scanned me momentarily. Then he said, in a soft, reserved tone, “It is not too late to run, you know.” 

That statement should have been startling, or threatening. Or even just slightly off-putting. Not even close. It was timid, frightened notion hiding inside a sad, empty hollow. It was almost an invitation to run away, a plea wearing the oversized coat of a threat. Even so, I felt the need to be assertive, to be brave and solid and stoic in the face of such confused emotions. 

“I think I'm in too deep to do that now...” 

His shoulders stiffened, and I could see his hands nervously shuffling in his pockets. I thought I saw a tremor begin in his arm, but the dark clothing made it difficult to tell. Then he straightened himself again, like a tree recovering from an aggressive gust of wind. 

“No,” he said flatly. “I'm the one who's in too deep.” His pace slowed, his rough voice billowing out over his footsteps until he came to another full stop, and all that stood between us was grave, fractured silence. 

“It is strange, you know. I spend all my day watching people's eyes as they look away. I thought for a long time that that was what I wanted. I wanted them to walk away, to look somewhere else. To leave me be. I wanted them to be afraid, to be elsewhere. But now I have you, wandering and creeping in for a closer look at every little chance you get. I wondered for so long what I should do with you, how I should respond. Because, you see, it is more than curiosity now. More than instinct. I'm going to let you see everything, because you are the only one who really sees.” 

The words were weighted, and brazen, but I could tell that they'd come from a place that was deeply hidden and desperately guarded. If there was a time for a thunderclap, it was then. But there came none. 

I just let the statement hang in the air, its tiny barbs taking hold somewhere, bringing with it an infernal itch. A prickling feeling of unease and sadness, coupled with some vague sense of responsibility for the tangle I had made of our 'relationship'. For one hideous instant, I wanted to return to our previous arrangement. At least there, I knew my place. And he would not look at me so longingly, so vulnerably, churning up such convoluted feelings. Any power I had gained fell to pieces in my hands. 

I felt a stray drop hit my face. He didn't seem concerned with the coming storm. His eyes were hard, staring into me with a cold, sad ferocity. A soft patter of rain began, bouncing around him in its infinite impossibilities, encasing him like a wet beam of spotlight. The sky was darker, the world slicker and less defined. A ruined watercolor of gray and black and endless blue-green. Just as the world stopped making sense, and just as all reason threatened to flee, the image of his sleek movement through the water flashed before me. I thought of that intense fixation, that woefully centered stance as he stood ready to dive. The shock of just how quickly he moved through the water. Litheness and grace marred by predatory focus. It all made sense. Constant movement. Constant studying. Desperate not to think. 

Don't think. Just be. 

Be perfect. 

He had sunk to a depth where the pressure was crushing him on all sides, and I was the only one who had bothered to pull him to shore. Something inside me came to a screeching, brutal halt. I looked into his eyes. I had spent years never lingering longer than I needed to, avoiding eye contact, running from the arresting sway he held me in when I gazed too long. But I had cast off the fear he provoked in me, and instead attempted to give him a hard, fearless stare. I was met with a gaze as still and black as the ocean. No glint of mischief, of danger. Just longing. Pain. Pleading. 

A beautiful animal in a tiny cage, only freed by the embrace of water, and the promise of internal silence. 

This was more than fooling around to him. More than control, more than raging hormones and confusingly satisfying encounters. This was a break, a lull in the never-ending quest to be perfect, to be solid and steady under the crashing weight of expectation. This was a bright spot in a world of never-ending rain. A moment of visibility in a long, cold stretch of fog. He was letting me win. 

My chest felt full, aching. 

“Do not lag behind. The sky is threatening to divide.” 

That familiar tone returned. Arrogant, tactless, and full of a thousand painful truths. He plowed ahead, the rain now slacking up just a bit, as if in tandem to his movements. For some reason, his turnabout emotions were starting to get under my skin. The way he turned on a dime from dangerous and threatening to harsh and sad, it was as exasperating as it was mesmerizing. A routine combination of anger and frustration rose up in me. It was just beginning to rise to my face when he stopped again. 

He had a more definite purpose this time. 

In all my wandering thoughts and frothing, displaced feelings, I had not noticed that we had come upon our destination. The few moments before I turned to see what he saw felt stretched and oblong and augmented, like they were desperately trying to pull me away. He looked past a beautifully maintained yard, past immaculate shrubbery and a carefully painted garage toward a house that, by all accounts, looked very much like any other in the neighborhood. But all was not well. Anyone who lingered longer than a few moments could tell you that. Though I had no doubt that most people, other than his thug friends, ran past the house while holding their breath. 

He was as still as still could be, his face a canvas of apathy. It was his eyes that gave it all away. They were a storm. He had turned a sharp ninety degrees to gaze upon the only house on the block that I had never been in. I recognized the atmosphere surrounding it. The way it sucked all the noise out of the air. He just stood and waited for me to catch up, unmoving and unyielding. As I caught up, a very familiar wave of foreboding came over me. 

The house was looming like a wave, like the jaws of some yawning leviathan, threatening to swallow all who lingered. His eyes were blank, icy. Mirthless. I suddenly felt very cold. 

I looked into the black eyes of his very, very empty house. 

The sky split open, and with it came the deafening, ominous roar of the deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calm before the storm. Breath before the break.
> 
> All chapter summary quotes are from Moby Dick.


	4. The Bends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own.”

Approaching his house was a surreal experience, being that I had never been past the sidewalk. His house was very similar to others in the area, just another brick on the stack, one might say. That sloped, bungalow style house so common in the South, with its long windows and tendency towards haphazard squareness. It had a very lovely wooden door, older than ours, with its original patterned glass. I had long since wrecked ours playing baseball in the front yard. Mom had nearly gave birth spontaneously, coming out in her apron yelling about how that Nazz girl was a bad influence, whilst Dad gently pattered on about how 'boys will be boys' and 'it was just an accident.' That memory gave me a brief sense of humorous nostalgia and warmth. A feeling that was instantly dissolved by the rain and the atmosphere surrounding his house.

I got the feeling that his front yard was one that had never seen a gaggle of playing children. That the outside of the house was so unblemished seemed a testament to a lack of typical childhood activities, rather than good upkeep. Nothing was bent out of shape or dented, in contrast to our incredibly deformed garage door. No slightly cracked shutters or unattended damage. Not even so much as a chipped brick. Given the cloistered nature of the cul-de-sac, it seemed unnatural. And very, very sad. 

The house, though rather like others near it, seemed to be in better shape in general, while also having more expensive fixtures. A few pricey-looking concrete garden statues, but none that were interesting or particularly old. And spaced in a way that seemed too precise, too manufactured. It was all very clean and...posh, maybe? Considering some of the fascinatingly tacky lawn décor that I had been privy to through the years living in this town, it was distinctly out of place. It smelled like money to me. Not in the proud-of-what-we-have kind of way, either. In the miserly, too-rich-for-this-neighborhood sort of way. Considering Eddward's new, expensive car, it was not a hard leap to make. 

It made me uneasy. 

I glanced at Eddward, who, in a move that I did not expect, began to remove his shoes. In a mechanical way that betrayed the fact it was routine. His large, heavy boots thumped off, and he lined them up against the brick very precisely. He stood in his socks on the door mat, then fished his keys out of his pocket. His eyes were distant, clouded. He said nothing as he unlocked the door, the awning of the porch barely keeping us from being soaked by the rain. His motions were as measured as ever, but hampered by a sense of uncertainty that I'd not seen before. It did not last terribly long, but I noticed it nonetheless. Once the key was in the lock, and turning, his posture had straightened and his eyes had cleared. 

He stepped in, but stopped short, crouching to pick up a shoebox, which, appropriately, bore a label reading, “Shoebox.” He pulled out two pairs of graying house-slippers, sliding one pair on his boat-like feet. Then, he rolled up his wet jeans, taking care that each side was decidedly even. I was so taken aback by this bizarre ritual, that it took him standing to his full height and staring directly down at me before I recognized that he was expecting something of me. There was a lull of unfathomable silence as he stood, pink slippers in hand, staring at me like I'd stepped in something hideous along the way and was in need of proper cleansing. 

The intensity of his stare was almost intimidating. I'd come to expect that kind of feeling over the years, given his propensity to roam the school halls like a ravenous tiger shark. But I had not expected such a non-verbal confrontation over my footwear of all things. But his eyes also seemed to plainly say, “Standard procedure.” Even after I comprehended the supposed normality of what he was doing, it took a moment to put my limbs into motion. He emphatically prodded me with the slippers. 

“Um...ok.” 

Under any other circumstances, this would have been hilarious. Or at least awkward enough to be retroactively funny. But my nerves were already tingling with unease, and his absolute seriousness in the face of inclement weather, along with his towering presence, made me oblige. He stood stock still while I removed my shoes, then stiffly motioned toward the place atop the brick where he had placed his own shoes. He watched me intently as I leaned against the brick to slip on the ugly, ratty slippers, barely able to keep my balance due to my wet clothes. He stood just inside the threshold, his body blocking the entryway. I half expected him to frisk me for weapons. 

“Roll up your pants so you don't get the carpet too wet,” he muttered. 

I cast him a skeptical glance, but did as I was told. As I straightened up, readjusting my bag on my shoulders, he scanned me with his eyes, evaluating me with quiet, detached coolness. After a few moments, he nodded, quietly thanked me with a surprising amount of graciousness, and began to remove his coat. Only after everything was just so did he stand far enough from the door to let me in. He even held open the door, his eyes hard and undecipherable. After such an odd standoff, I was not sure what to expect out of the dark, foreboding cove ahead of me. 

Out of the tidepool and into a tsunami. 

I'd spent the entire way wondering what he would do, what he would say, what was so vastly significant about dragging me to his house under the pretense of 'showing me everything'? As fools often do, I'd assumed that I had everything figured out, that I'd read the portents in the sky, seen the writing in the waves. 

Within every predator lies one eternal desire: to survive. And within that, its needs are simple. Consume. Breathe. Procreate. Die. Surely such a ravenous beast could only be that: hungry, horny, having only the need for release, for simple, innate urges to be satisfied. After all that time, I still could not comprehend another side, despite the storm in his eyes, and the vast, yawning dismay I felt in the shadow of his lair. 

There was so much I didn't know. So much I shouldn't know. 

I wished he had never let me in. I wished I had never seen what I had. Finding a corpse would have been less disturbing. At least then, I would have known how to properly react. The feeling in the house was hard to describe. It was heavy, dark, clean to the point of being unnerving. Like no one lived there. Nothing to suggest that anyone interacted with the things contained within. No books on the table. No jacket hung over a chair, or a cup left unattended with every intention of being washed later. And yet it was spotless, almost clinical. Nothing was out of place, and yet everything was out of place. Like a dollhouse that a child had been forbidden to touch. Sad, empty, lacking purpose. And completely devoid of joy. 

He said nothing. Merely turned and extended his hand to me. 

“Your bag, Kevin.” 

I swallowed, still feeling weighed down by the atmosphere of the house. But after a second or two, I handed him my bag. He set it next to his own near the door, under another label that designated where they belonged. My throat tightened. 

“Come,” he said, stiffly making his way forward. I, again, did as he said. 

Though it was dark, I could vaguely make out a large foyer and connected living area, with one door on the left leading to the kitchen, and another on the right that I presumed to lead to the hallway and adjoining bedrooms. As I'd surmised before, typical bungalow-style house. 

As he moved through the foyer and toward the kitchen, Eddward did not even bother to turn on the light. How often had he moved through the dark, alone? It was not until he turned on the kitchen light, and its white, sallow brightness trailed over the living room, that I realized just how nice the house was. It seemed to me slightly larger than my own, and maybe just a touch more refined. Though I had always pegged Eddward as occupying the same middle-class tier that I did, seeing his house made me absolutely certain that his parents were better off than my own. 

The notion roused a rather peculiar series of thoughts. I had always thought that my own family would be happier if we could afford certain things. A new sink. A new water heater. Fixing that odd noise the car made when it idled too long. These things never seemed to get done at once, but rather slowly, painstakingly. We always got by, but it was such a squeeze, such a strain. I always imagined that more money would smooth things over, make things better, more certain. Standing in his threshold, I could see all the signs of order and touches of extravagance, all the inclinations of those who had no true financial burden. I thought it would look so different... 

This...this was the antithesis of happiness, of security. The death of warmth and stability. This was emptiness. Loss. In the midst of having everything, there was nothing. But it was when I entered the kitchen that I saw the real horror. Notes. On every surface. Odds and ends. Endless requests, with placating, empty kindnesses on each one. His named was spelled wrong on several of them. Left up, untouched, like some blessed effigy to affection that was otherwise non-existent. Some seemed rather worn, re-secured with tape. My heart sank even deeper at the sight of it. 

The sea of bright yellow on white walls bit into my eyes. 

He didn't respond, didn't comment. Just unceremoniously walked into the kitchen and grabbed a dishtowel, presumably for me to dry off my hair. His hat was soaked, but he made no move to remove it. He handed me the towel, and asked if there was anything he'd like me to dry for him. I looked down at myself and frowned. We'd barely managed to escape the rain, and taking the extra time to remove our shoes only meant getting wetter. My pants weren't terribly bad off, but my shirt was soaked and sagging and very uncomfortable. 

“Do you...have another shirt I can wear?” 

“Contrary to your belief, I am a civilized person. I do, in fact, have other clothes. Would you prefer one with sleeves or without?” 

I bit back a comment about him being a smart ass, if only for the fact that he was right. I had some vague, fantastical notion for the longest time that he fed on fear and suffering, like some sort of ghoul, and had no other indications of humanity. It made me feel like dirt to reflect on my shallow assumptions. Taken aback, I muttered something about not liking sleeveless shirts, and he nodded, excusing himself to the other part of the house, and leaving me alone to think of how vile I was. 

I looked around the kitchen as I dried my hair, trying to take in the gravity of my surroundings. It was difficult to linger on anything other than the notes for very long. There were a few handsome vintage things that had been tastefully arranged, but I could not pick anything out over the sterility of it all. Everything was color-coordinated and labeled, like some sort of 50s-themed fever dream, or the set of a propaganda piece on the daily life of a housewife. Not even an unwashed dish or a stray cup. It was nauseating. 

I turned to face the door and let the towel fall just over my eyes. 

It did not take long for him to return, having changed out of his wet clothes into something more suitable for lounging. Or at least that is what I assumed, given the only difference I could see was that he was wearing a sleeveless undershirt instead of his usual dark, heavy attire. He held in his arm another t-shirt, two larger towels, and what I was fairly certain was a pair of lounge pants. He handed me the shirt, lounge pants and a towel, then instructed me on where the bathroom was. In a vague sense of shock, I thanked him and shuffled my way towards the hallway to change. 

Being in the bathroom should have given me a bit more time to gather my composure and my thoughts. But it quickly became apparent that that would be difficult, if not impossible. Though not as dense as the kitchen, the bathroom was also covered in those damn sticky notes. I let out a breath so long, I thought it had come from a second pair of lungs. The bathroom was spotless, as one might expect. As before, it was tasteful, perhaps a bit more modern than the kitchen. Though not as interesting. I resisted an urge to go rooting through the cabinets, to make sure there was no arsenic or horse tranquillizers that he might slip into my food. 

But I was being ridiculous. Even if that was his intention, he was far too smart to just leave them where I could find them. It was but a passing fancy. He was too vulnerable in his own space to be violent. I was certain of that. At this point, it might even be my fault if he turned violent for allowing myself to be led so far. Even so...I didn't feel threatened, just nervous. Feeling a slight sense of shame at being privy to such private pain. 

I shook my head, shaking off stray thoughts, knowing if I took too long, he might come to check on me. I stripped out of my wet clothes, quickly glancing at the clothes he handed me to wear. Bigger than my own. I had expected as much. Plain. Again, I had expected them to be. The shirt was a swim team shirt, old enough for the writing to be faded. The pants were black, faded cotton, soft and comfortable against my skin, even if they were too long. I took the time to remove my socks, balling them up and putting them in my pocket. They were slightly damp from the humidity outside. 

When I opened the door, my wet clothes slung over my arm, he was waiting not far away. Feeling a little awkward, I handed him the clothes slung over my arm. He took them, giving me a quick nod. I watched the muscles in his bare arms move under his pale skin, forgetting myself for a moment. He might have smirked or made some gesture to acknowledge it, but he was focused on the task at hand, turning and walking toward what I assumed to be the laundry room. I had no doubt that he noticed, though. He always did. 

I walked into the kitchen and waited, still a little unsettled by the state of the house. I never in my life thought I would walk into someone's house and think, 'it would be so much better if it weren't so clean.' It did not take long for him to reappear, his hair obviously drier, but still covered in his signature hat. He had a towel draped over his broad shoulders, to catch any errant dripping from his hair. I found my eyes drawn to it, much like I had been to his eyes, allowing myself to see it with renewed fascination, and in far more substantial lighting. It was truly, deeply black. Not dark brown, or an out-of-a-box kind of black, but the true rich black of a bird's feathers, or the night sky colors of dyed Indian silks. Perhaps a bit dry from chlorine, but still lustrous. A black untouched by the weathering of the world. 

Like his eyes, it was a sight I could not unsee. 

It was longer than I thought, possibly due to being weighted down. Long enough to draw the eye down to his neck, to settle in the curve of muscle. Lean and strong, black over white. Even under the harsh lights of the kitchen, it struck me as ethereal. I thought of the pool and its odd lights, the sight of Poseidon in a lagoon. A creature of legend reduced to human objects and stiff, but sincere politeness. My heart beat faster watching him. 

His eyes cut to me. 

“Your clothes will be dry in about 30 minutes.” He then paused, looking me over. “Do you want me to dry your socks, as well?” 

“What?” 

He pointed to my hip. 

“That unsightly lump in your pocket. Or my pocket, rather.” 

Of course he noticed the stupid socks. I should have known better. 

“Oh...sorry. I forgot. It's a bad habit I have... Mom's always fussing at me about it...” 

His mouth moved. It was such an ambiguous movement that I could not tell if it was pained or amused. He pulled a plastic bag out of a canister on the counter, and handed it to me. 

“Are you serious?” 

“As death, pumpkin.” 

I felt a tiny, familiar pang of anger at that statement, not certain if it was smug or just stubborn. He's touched my dick before, and he's worried about my feet? Whatever. Weirdo. 

I put them in the bag, tied it off and handed it to him. He flung it toward the doorway. 

“I will get them in a bit. Do you want a drink, Kevin?” 

How quickly he switched gears. 

An affable host, if nothing else. I hesitated, having some passing notion that such an act would be like taking candy from a stranger in a white van, but eventually nodded. He nodded back, and with an obliging graciousness, took a soda from the very back of the fridge. It was downright frosty when he handed it to me, his thin, pretty fingers wrapped around it in a way that made me stare for a moment. The look of such pale fingers on a dark surface was almost salacious. My eyes lingered too long on his offering hand, and he nudged it toward me insistently. I took it from him, and one of his cold fingernails grazed my skin. 

He returned to the open fridge, and retrieved a drink of his own. He sat down at the kitchen table, just under the harsh halogens, which cast odd gray shadows beneath his eyes. He popped the tab on his soda, and let out an audible sigh upon the first sip. Then he placed the frigid can against his lean neck, and his eyes closed in contained bliss for a moment or so. An oddly human gesture, one that made me want to relax as much as he had. But I still felt nervous, uncertain. 

“It is unhealthy, but I can indulge on a day such as this,” he said softly, almost pleasantly. If we had been on more friendly terms, I might have found it humorous. I heard the distinct sound of the air conditioner kicking on, accompanied by the steady influx of chilled air piping into the kitchen. I felt an odd sense of relief wash over me. Under different, more cordial circumstances, I might have found this evening rather quaint. 

But his politeness could not dampen the oppressive atmosphere of the house. Nor his own brooding nature, which remained mostly unchanged even in his own home. In the moment, he seemed more contemplative, more surly. I wondered if he was awaiting some comment, or a statement. What did he seek to gain by allowing me here? Did he want me to address the environment, or did he have something to tell me that only absolute privacy would allow? Or did he, this discomposing, perplexing sea-dweller, want to be comforted? Had he brought me into his lair, to force me to reckon with the context of his behavior? Or did he want to share some old, hidden pain, with the hope that it would hurt less? Of all the things he could desire, this unnerved me the most. 

“Sit, Kevin. You need not wait for me to tell you.” 

I shuffled my way to the table, vaguely searching for a coaster. Anything not to meet his eyes from so close until I was prepared for it... I found a neat stack of them, as I knew I would. He seemed vaguely amused by this. 

“The table is glass, Kevin. I can just wipe it down.” 

“No, it's fine. Habit. Though it's weird that this is the one thing you're not worried about getting dirty.” 

He didn't answer. Just kept an air of amusement for a moment or two, then returned to watching me quietly, seemingly waiting for me to meet his eyes. When I finally met his gaze, the intensity of it flared for a moment, and I was glad for my decision to do so. Even as awkward as our barely-even-a-conversation was, I couldn't let his presence turn me into an imbecile. He seemed to have some modicum of respect for me, and, even if I was feeling embarrassed or uncertain, I was not about to let that slide. Not after years of feeling cornered. 

The entire situation was off-kilter, but steadily creeping toward normalcy as the moments went by. Being on a first name basis seemed so strange. Even stranger, I was becoming used to it, I even kind of liked the way he said my name. It was so different from anyone else, so exact, even vaguely formal. We locked eyes for a few seconds more, and I found myself wondering how many times I had said his name. Aloud, I mean. How many times had I called to him, in a moment of stumbling pleasure or even just casually. Obviously, not often, given our scattered history, but it was still a thought I found intriguing. 

Now that I thought on it, he did look like an Eddward. 

He took another sip of his soda, not tearing his eyes off mine for an instant. 

“Are you going to open it, or just make eyes at me all night?” 

Shit. I fumbled to open the can, spraying a fine mist of soda on the table, completely negating the fact that I'd sought out a coaster. I took a long sip, grateful for the cold after a walk through the humid air. He watched me placidly, eying the mess I had made on the table, his long fingers covered in the dripping condensation of his soda can. 

Stumbling for conversation, and finding his fingers distracting, I stuttered out, “thank you for the soda.” He just nodded, still watching. 

This was ridiculous, I thought. Clumsy as it was, we'd been on an intimate basis for months now. Surely we could find something to talk about besides our stupid, jumbled feelings and how fucked up everything was. So it was I that blurted out the first random, order-of-the-day conversation topic that came to mind, context be damned. 

“Do you like music?” 

“Doesn't everyone?” 

Just as my slow, internal screaming began, he followed up, seemingly appreciative of the conversation. “I have my favorites, but I am not particularly picky, so long as something is interesting and well-constructed. It is cliché to say so, but I do not get much enjoyment out of mainstream music. I have done some odd things for Jimmy's band every now and then, but he is being very...artistic right now. Something about needing to improve his craft, and only being able to do that by himself. Which I assume means he is in his mother's basement groaning into his expensive microphone and banging on skillets again.” 

There was far too much to process about that statement. I was torn between calling him a liar and laughing hysterically at the thought of a thug like Jimmy having some sort of moody, hipster breakdown in his mother's basement. 

“Jimmy has a band?” 

He smirked. “That is a strong word for it, for the most part. He is very talented vocally, but he does not play to his talents. He is convinced that grunting is superior to actually enunciating. He has a decent hand at writing, good at wordplay, but I find a lot of it rather pretentious. Johnny is incredible at the drums, but they make such a racket that his mother often intervenes.” 

The idea of either of them being good at something other than kicking puppies and punching small children absolutely astounded me. 

“And where do you fit into all the...art they are making?” 

He hesitated a bit, as if he did not want to admit to being part of whatever Helter-Skelter hysterics Jimmy had cooked up. “I am mainly involved in the technical aspect. Editing, mastering, mixing. Noise reduction when Sarah starts screaming at him from the stairs... But he is insistent on my participation on other fronts.” 

“Like?” 

Again, he look a bit uncomfortable. “Vocals, bass. Electric guitar. I would rather just make sure that the electronics do not catch fire.” 

“You actually play?” 

“Is that such a shock, Kevin?” 

“No, Jimmy's ability to sing is a shock. But you make it sound like it's a bad thing.” 

“It is a distraction I cannot afford, Kevin. Simple as that.” 

He gave me a hard, uncompromising stare. Then relented, looking away. He took a long sip of his soda. Draining the last of the liquid from the can, he very slightly leaned back in his chair, pushing out his chest and leaning back his head to stretch out all those lean, masculine lines. Pressing his pretty form into my eyes, before gracefully settling back down to earth, and setting down his can. At this point, he had to be doing that on purpose. 

Distracting from a topic that gone astray. Or rather, changing the subject before I got to the heart of it. Why was his potential musical talent the one thing that struck a sore spot? He'd dragged me into his mildly terrifying house, making me observe bizarre rituals and gaze into the 50s-themed, domestic abyss that was his home life. But the idea of me knowing that he could play guitar somehow made him squirm. As much as I wanted to push, if only to hear more about Jimmy's burgeoning music career, something told me it would get me nowhere. That was one thing that made him too prickly and defensive. I let it go. 

He crushed the soda can loudly, and I had a thin, threatened feeling similar to how his footsteps once struck fear into every inch of me. 

The sound seemed to break his moody reverie, and he looked at me. 

“I apologize. That was rude of me. What about you, Kevin? Do you have a favorite band?” 

“Hard to say. I really like industrial-sounding stuff.” 

“That is appropriate, I would say.” 

“I like the older stuff, but lately I've been listening to a lot of Tool and IAMX.” 

His eyes shifted to me in interest. “What about A Perfect Circle?” 

“Oh, totally. I'd follow Maynard anywhere. He could start singing nursery rhymes tomorrow, and he'd still have my money.” 

That made him smile. Legitimately. 

“I rather like APC. Do you like Nine Inch Nails?” 

“Sometimes. I find them hit or miss. Their older stuff is more interesting.” 

“That is a fair assessment. Resting on their laurels, I find. Pretty Hate Machine might sound like it was recorded in a basement, but it is certainly an honest kind of album. Sounds very raw. Very real. Perhaps that is cliché, as well.” His fingers trailed up and down the glass in thought. 

“I like to think he recorded it in a seedy motel in the middle of nowhere. Or the back of his car.” 

He made an odd noise. It wasn't quite a laugh, but it was close. A chuckle, maybe. A soft hum in his chest, met with a tiny smile. Genuine amusement. It would seem that he agreed. His attachment to an album most found obscure made me re-examine my love of it. It also made me think about him. I always believed that you could tell a lot about someone by their taste in music, though this was not set in stone. 

I thought of the soundscape of both bands. Dark, industrial, deeply sexual. I shifted in my chair, evaluating his tastes against his personality. I thought of machinery, of the ocean, manmade thoughtlessness and unflinching, primal instinct. But laden with the poetry of motion and sound, the thoughts of existence. Fraught with the burden of knowing too much... 

A song that carried across the ocean. 

I was hearing something awakening, calling. Sirens. Man-eaters. Myths and legends. All sitting inches away from me. I felt a rush of longing, my face warm for no other reason than my own senseless romantic notions. Flustering as it was, I couldn't help but feel the pull to continue. This was probably the least awkward conversation we'd ever had. It was stilted and long past due, but it actually moved, rather than stuttered. Flowed like a river, rather than crashing like the waves. For a moment, I forgot my surroundings. Thunder rumbled in the distance, sounding much quieter than earlier in the evening. 

“Can I get another soda?” 

“Go ahead. There are not many, but you are welcome to them.” 

“Do you want one?” 

“No, thank you. I will just have water.” 

I paused. “Where are the glasses?” 

“I can get it myself. Go ahead and get your drink.” 

The way he spoke left no room for argument. All part of that ingrained Southern hospitality, I suppose. The act of allowing me to serve myself was a motion of trust. But serving him? Not so much. I found that fierce politeness to be rather charming, if a bit old-fashioned. Originally, it had set me on edge. Seemed a bit much, given his bizarre show at the door. Made me feel like I'd booked a room at the Bates motel, and any second he'd scream at his dead mother in the other room. Wasn't exactly prepared to sleep here, but I was all but certain there were no desiccated, wheelchair-bound corpses to be found. 

Progress. I stood up to get my soda. 

He watched me intently as I moved from the chair to the fridge. Expectantly, almost. But it was not his gaze that made me uncomfortable. It was the carefully arranged display on the fridge that made me cringe. It was rather like an altar. All straight and square and ceremonial. There were too many of them to process at once, most of them old and faded. Some were demands, some were questions. One particularly old one just said “thank you. Be home soon.” It was re-secured and sealed with tape, clean and tight and preserved like a waxen corpse. 

But there was one that stood out. It was the starkest, the least battered. Like a new idea that had been given physical form. It was like a yield sign, the bright yellow square front and center on the fridge door. Written in a flowing, immaculate script, more akin to an ancient tome than a friendly reminder: “Homework before friends.” I bit my lip in discomfort, pausing long enough to give away my feelings before retrieving my soda from the spotless, perfectly organized fridge. An oddly placed effigy, I thought. I didn't like it. 

“That one is the newest,” he said softly. 

“A little bit on the nose, I think.” 

“Yes,” he said bluntly, gazing emptily at the crushed soda can in his hand. 

I knew what was coming next. But I tried my damnedest to not let the awkward silence set in, pulling out my newest trick of spitting out the first thing I conjured to break the ice. 

“Um...how did you and Jimmy meet?” 

He paused, then gave me an inquisitive, slightly puzzled look. “Class,” he said, as if that were all the information needed. 

“Well, yeah, I thought that. He's been trapped in this town just like we both have. I meant...how did you get to be friends?” 

He hesitated, looking pensive. Started to say something, but didn't. 

“I am...not comfortable releasing that information.” 

“Oh? You can tell me about his hipster histrionics in the basement but you can't tell me why you two are friends?” 

“It is not nearly as embarrassing, I assure you. Just a certain set of circumstances that I do not think he would want me spreading around. James....Jimmy is an odd bird. I know what you are thinking, Kevin. Do not look at me like that. He is odd and moody, but he is not a complete waste. Just...angry and frustrated. I will say this, if you will do me the service of not repeating it...he is rather like a puppy. Needs someone to cling to. He has trouble making his own decisions. As ludicrous as this whole pots-and-pans orchestra fiasco has been, I see it as progress. He is showing initiative. It is not what I would consider a worthy endeavor, but it was his idea and he went through with it on his own. Beside, these little artist outbursts are much more manageable when I am not getting dragged into them. Win-win, I would say.” 

Odd. Not quite evasive, but not exactly honest. Perhaps that was out of respect for Jimmy's privacy. I was still reeling from the puppy comparison, still not having recovered from the shock of Jimmy's singing career. I had to move on before my brain did a backflip. 

“And Johnny?” 

“I helped him learn how to read.” 

“Oh? That's...” 

“Noble? I hardly think so. Someone had to. The poor kid is not exactly flourishing in public education. Something had to be done, and no other tutor could handle his outbursts. I do not know if you have been around him long enough to notice, but Johnny is autistic. Mildly, but noticeably. Hence the plank of wood and the violent outbursts. Was in special education for a while, but he did not fare well there either. I was able to help with his difficulties reading when we were much younger, and he became rather attached to me. He is not an idiot, you know. Just has skills that do not line up with what the school expects. He can play any instrument you put in his hands. Plays by ear. Memorizes instruction manuals so he can build things. If you give him something structured and technical, he is brilliant. But he hates school, and his parents are not exactly accepting of a potential diagnosis. They think that church is all he needs to worry about. I do what I can to keep him in line.” 

“By sending him to rough me up?” 

“I never sent him. Eventually we decided that anything physical was my domain. Kept him from hitting people. Only now he hits himself. That is why he plays the drums. It is the only time I see him smile. Genuinely, that is.” He trailed off, letting the sentence hang on the air. 

I had to take a deep, audible breath. This was a lot to process. I wanted to be angry, but couldn't quite muster sadness. I couldn't forgive, especially not instantaneously, but everything he just said gave me pause. I was not about to proclaim his cronies as good people, especially after years of drama and torment. But all this new information was not something to disregard. Johnny was the least surprising. I'd always thought he was off. That was part of why I'd hated Eddward so much, thinking that he had taken advantage of him, not to mention his muscle. But where would Johnny be without him? He'd always been a loner, always been strange. Even from a young age, he seemingly preferred objects to people, spending most of his time by himself. 

And hearing that he was thrown into Special Education...that stung quite a bit. Peach Creek Middle School wasn't terrible, but they weren't exactly known to be accommodating either. They simply hadn't the resources for specialized services or even many separate classes for gifted kids. Eddward's words implied that Johnny had a less high-functioning form of autism, not just a simpler case treatable through socialization and therapy. I didn't want to think about it, but he'd given me no choice. 

Just like the house, he'd led me right into it. 

In regards to Jimmy, I had to think harder. I'd not associated with him as much in my youth. Maybe briefly when I was younger, but it did not take him long to find a pocket of friends that he stuck to. I remembered his early years. His mother kept his hair long, dressed him in soft colors. He was an adorable, round-faced, cotton-headed little boy, and his fair features had earned him a lot of grief once he reached a certain age. Even I'd occasionally thought to myself that he was rather 'pretty.' Even now, he had delicate features, but he was guarded on both sides by Thug 1 and Thug 2. Maybe I'd have taken to fighting myself if I'd had a similar fate. Or maybe not. It was hard to say. 

But even if I did not know Jimmy, he seemed the sensitive type growing up. The kind that people seek out and prey on. So, it only made sense that he turned right around to violence. Covering his perceived weakness. I remember a fight he got into in the lunch room not even three years ago. Some older kid called him a 'fairy'. Despite Jimmy being maybe a third of his size, he let out an animalistic screech and leaped across the table at the kid. No one knew what to do until the blood started pooling on the floor. Not the typical punch-for-punch fight that every boy gets into at some point. Those kinds of fights never last long, and intervention is just a matter of getting between them or prying one off the other. This was nasty. Scratching, punching, biting. All the while screaming. Jimmy did not fight fair, nor did he stop when he was restrained. His eyes were fixed on the other boy, his hands covered in blood and his eyes blazing. The other boy's injuries were not severe, but there was so much blood you'd have sworn he'd taken the kid's eye out. 

I shuddered to recall it. It was genuinely frightening to think about how quickly he'd turned that day. Maybe that was when it started. I'd seen him with Eddward soon after that. I closed my eyes, the memory slowly resurfacing. It was something I thought I'd buried, as it was proceeded by my own parade of humiliation and physical encounters. I'd say it was one of the few severe fights that had broken out at school, at least in high school. The rest were just the typical hormonal pissing matches, either two boys who got on each others' nerves, or two girls who decided they hated each other that day. I imagine that the only reason Jimmy wasn't expelled for such a sudden outburst of violence was because it was his first offense. 

Eddward watched me turn the situation over in my head, weighing his words against my own experiences. I'm not sure how long we were in stalemate, listening to the silence turn and twist. Finally, he sighed and looked down at the table, clasping his hands together. 

“I will not make excuses for my actions, Kevin. Nor will I make any for the actions of my comrades. I just thought that you should know these things. I...want you to know these things.” 

I stopped myself from answering. I longed to ask him why, to cut through all the vagueness and melodrama and just demand to know why he was telling me all this. But I kept the words to myself, because as soon as the silence settled, he gave me a very familiar look. A heavy, significant stare like just before he had led me to his house. Sea green and dark clouds. Linoleum white and bright warning yellow. Halogens and darkness. A clashing world of love and hate, mystery and awareness, trivial whispers and weighted gestures. His world. I was beginning to piece things together. 

He wanted me to stay. Not for a day. Not for an hour. But for as long as time and kindness would allow. Perhaps I'd always known that. Even then, I thought that he'd falter. Grow tired of me. Become frustrated. I'd plunged before I'd known what lay below. I was way out of my comfort zone. Not used to the pressure of the deep, but somehow longing to find my way in the dark. 

He had shown me where he came from, laid out the vastness of his damage, even told me why his friends were just as fucked up as he was. It was all a plea. 

Don't leave me. 

The vast, yawning whiteness of the house loomed around me. My stomach turned. 

“What about...them?” 

“Them?” 

The cold air stood still. “Your parents.” 

His expression didn't change, but his voice was quiet and solemn. “You have eyes. What do you think?” 

I felt a pressure behind my eyes, a slight stinging in my nose. The telltale warnings of tears. It was over quickly, but I feared its return. Despite my romanticism, I was not a super emotional person. Not easily overwhelmed. Inclined to fancy, but not immune to reality. 

Reality, I thought. It's all so real, so close. 

I could still hear the rain. 

“How long has it been like this?” 

“Years...Ever increasing as time goes on. Once I was old enough to not stick my fingers in electrical sockets, they started leaving me alone. I am not certain they planned for me. I did not fit into their schedule, I suppose. Even though they went through every precaution to keep me from toddling my way towards death's door...” He paused, gazing darkly ahead. “Safety is not the same as security. Consistency is not the same as warmth. Everything is stable. Everything is in order. But none of that matters. I am certain that I do not need to tell you the rest. You have seen it. Felt it. This is the way I live...” 

His eyes lingered on the wall for another moment, then drifted to me. 

The cold can was sweating against my hand. A few water droplets trickled over my fingers and onto the floor. For a moment, his eyes became fixed where they fell. Some phantom notion flickered in his gaze, but was swallowed by an already stirring storm. Then his eyes returned to me, just as plaintive and sharp as they had been before. Plagued by uncertainty and haunted by brutal honesty, my confidence broke, and I had to turn away from his eyes to face the cabinets, my breathing hectic and my heart beating in a scattered pattern. 

“Wh-where are the cups?” I stuttered, suddenly nervous. 

He didn't budge, didn't blink. “Just behind you, Kevin. To the left.” 

My hands were shaking. The handle was cold. Facing the guts of the cabinet, meticulous and unnerving and white, I could only stand and wait for my nerves to settle. The cups were like teeth, set in perfect lines. Perfect white circles like eyes. An old relish dish like a coiled, bleached nautilus. Everything just so. 

I'd fought it so long, but now the sadness was too much. It was everywhere. 

I was not turned around for more than an instant, before he came in behind me like a silent wave, his arms on either side of me. Surrounding me. A tall dark shadow pressed close to my back, his clean-shaven chin just brushing my forehead as he leaned into my ear. I stiffened, despite my attempt to remain calm. 

“It has been months since anyone else came in this house. It gets so quiet at night... Quiet enough to make one wonder if anyone lives here at all...” 

His breath fluttered. 

“I would tell you I am used to it. But that is only half true. I am accustomed. I have adapted. But even when they are just a phone call away, I never hear their voices until they wander into the house in the middle of the night. Like ghosts. They do not really live here. It is just me.” His voice faltered. “Me and the quiet and the dark...” 

He leaned deeper. A full-body tilt into me. Somehow the pressure was reassuring. His warmth bled into me, the cold of the room and the harshness of color beginning to dull.... 

“They always seem to leave before I see them.” 

The cold, unopened can slid from my hand, leaving a long, wet trail across the counter. Everything was quiet. Just his breath and the odd, staccato groans of the house settling in the cooling outside air. The silence was so pressing, and my emotions so tangled, I blurted out the first coherent thought I had. 

“Even I know that there are two Ds in your first name...” 

Even though I could not see his face, I felt his reaction. For one surreal, quiet moment in time, he softened. His hands loosened their grip on the counter, his presence seemed to lighten, and a very low, sad sound rumbled in his throat. 

In a thin, hollow voice that could not have belonged to him, he repeated his earlier statement: “You are the only one who sees...” 

After a long moment of silence, he whispered. “I want to touch you, Kevin.” 

It sounded needy. Pained. Just another entreating phrase among many, a sentiment that I had heard before. I didn't say no, wouldn't say no. I simply let my hand brush against his, resting for a moment in the heart of the storm. He let his cold fingers trail over the shell of my ear, his fingers leading an icy trail down the side of my neck. I shuddered, feeling my body become deliciously tense at the mixed sensation of his warm breath and his chilled fingers. I fought a terrible urge to arch my back, to lean into him, to assert the lewd feelings boiling in my stomach. But my breath caught in my chest, my hands tightening on the counter as he pressed closer. I gripped his hand harder. 

I should have hesitated, should have been more coy, more careful, perhaps. But the moment I felt his hips buck into me, I twisted around to meet him, barely able to maneuver in the thin space between us. His breath was hot on my face, slightly sweet and metallic. Honey and acid. Ice and fire. 

He kissed me like a starving, trapped creature, and I melted right into him. He pressed roughly into me, my arms and legs clumsily meeting him, his kiss just as hot and briny as I knew it would be. Wet and hungry and loud. He gathered me closer, his arms strong and unyielding. Logic dissolved. I could no longer think of the silly little game of cat and mouse, or the thrill of chasing him down, only to be cornered and quivering. This was new. Evolved. A manic, scrambling ecstasy. 

A low growl started in his throat, striking some primal cord in me, meeting his bare arms with my fingernails, then testing the tense, hard muscle with my hands. I think he swore aloud. I'm not sure. But within moments, he had buried his teeth into my neck and I could have sworn I was being electrocuted. My mouth free of his own, I let out an odd, strangled groan. I thought it was brutally embarrassing, but he tensed all over at its sound, pulling me closer. I felt like there was no more room for anything to move between us, but I was wrong. He bucked into me again, and I could feel how hard he was, how insistent. 

I knew what I was feeling, instinctually. Lust was not exactly hard for me to determine, especially given the past few months. But there was something more. A diverging need. An animal desire to consume, or to be consumed. To fill or be filled. I'd never allowed myself to burn this hot, to so thoroughly let my guard down. I'd no doubt that he'd been far less restrained, given his reactions to even the lightest of touches when we were alone. But at this moment, we were in perfect sync. Almost at a level of synthesis. There was a mutual, sensual undertow. Both of us on even ground, driven by a need for completion. 

It was absolutely wonderful. 

Too wonderful. 

Somewhere between moaning and gasping, I coughed, suddenly tense. He pulled away, his hands making one fluid motion as they loosened their grip. His needful tension broke, and his hands cradled my shoulders. It was hesitant, as if he was not sure how he'd done it. Or perhaps in shock that he could at all. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“No, I just need to...catch my breath.” 

His eyes looked so green, so clouded with lust. His breathing was labored, but he seemed a bit calmer now. He watched me. 

Finally, my senses returned, long enough to still feel a vague predatory intent in his gaze. It was hidden beneath a mist of lust and need, but it was still there. I took another breath and laid my head into his shoulder. My eyes drifted down to his collarbone, buried in the black fabric, my face warm. He actually jumped a little, and it made me realize just how intimate the gesture was. Not the motion of prey, but of a mate. He stiffened a bit, and amidst a warm, wandering longing, I felt the familiar pull of power. It crawled over my senses like a spider, never quite settling, just pattering over my nerves with tiny, unsure feet. 

He let me linger for a few moments. Even in the calm, there was tension. Nervousness. Though it seemed to be mostly his. The forbearance of a predator pacing in wait, hungry and aflame, but uncertain and anxious. 

He looked away when he finally spoke. 

“We...might be more comfortable elsewhere.” 

“...oh?” Terrible response. My brain was so addled, it was all I could muster. 

“My room, Kevin. It's down the hallway.” 

The way he said was almost morose, not quite the brusque, low voice I had come to expect from a very aroused Eddward. It sounded almost like a confession. Still harsh and breathy. An obvious eroticism to it. But not quite what I'd imagined. 

“That is...if you want. If...all this is too much...” 

“No... I'm fine.” 

“All right,” he said finally, weightedly. “This way.” 

He took my hand gently, his long, pretty fingers trailing along my arm just before he clasped it. There again was that quiet tenderness. He didn't pull forcefully. He was focused, staring plaintively toward the hallway, but he was not rough or even overly insistent. Passing into the hallway, even if I had done it before, felt like hitting an invisible barrier. Like the breath before the plunge. The air was colder there, the mood different, especially now that clouds had darkened the sky and the hour grew ever later. He turned back to me, his eyes catching the light. 

“It is all right. I am not going to eat you. It is just another room, Kevin. Just another room...” 

I still hesitated. It felt like another layer of sadness, another fathom I hadn't explored. But I pressed on, feeling a wave of wistfulness settle over me. Like crossing the threshold of an old, abandoned building. It all hit me at once. For a few moments, I was overcome with an odd assortment of emotions. There were family photos on the walls, cast in eerie shadows. Memories set to hang in silence. A cute kid with a gap that slowly dissolved into a steely-eyed young man who looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. But always with that hat. Perhaps at some point there had been baby pictures. Surely he hadn't been birthed with it. There were a few empty spaces on the wall. But in all of the pictures that remained.. the hat was in them all. 

No dust. No mark where the frame was upset and removed. Just an empty, lonely space where a memory was excised from sight. The cold scalpel of pain applied deliberately to an ancient sadness. It was dark, cold, clinical. Surreal in the dying blue light of dusk. As if underwater, preserved and undisturbed for decades. I remained in place, staring at the walls, until he carefully touched my neck and brought me back to the present. 

His fingers were warm, inviting, his eyes sharp and vigilant, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. I wanted to apologize, or blurt out an awkward, stumbling speech about my sympathies, but I couldn't summon the words. Nor would he allow me to. He leaned against the wall, half his figure veiled in shadow and pulled me into him. Within moments, I felt his hands mapping me out. Hot breath and closed eyes. Not thinking, not speaking. Just desperate, unspoken pleas for unreality. It wasn't long before his desire for thoughtlessness became my own. 

Animals, the both of us, I thought. 

No room for sadness in the midst of ignorant bliss. Not even in the cavern where loneliness lies stagnant and palpable in the very air. He was warm in the cold. Land in the middle of the sea. And I had every inclination to believe that he saw me in the same way. I could take him away from all this, even if only in short bursts. Or only for as long as he would allow. 

It is the nature of invitation to be vulnerable, to be willing, in some way, to submit. Beasts do not invite, do not caress. What of the fate of sad, lost creatures and orphans of the sea? Shipwrecked. Stranded. Or, in his case, marooned. 

I kissed him back, until his roughness resurfaced, feeling a surge of pleasure at its normalcy. He was more demanding in his movements, and yet, he continued to lean backwards into the wall, his knees bent to compensate for our height difference. It was awkward, strange, but the clashing of our limbs was the least of our concerns. A blur of blue and black. Maybe the haphazard clacking of teeth, or the odd bump of an elbow. All just haze and heat. His fingers tugged a bit at my hair. I nibbled at his lip. I couldn't process it all. 

By the time our initial, breathless crashing had slowed, we were both panting. We locked eyes, seemingly at a standstill. Uncertain how to proceed. I thought of his bedroom, of what implication it held, the gentleness with which he had guided me toward the hallway. 

Too fast. It was all moving too fast. 

I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud, but this was all terrifying. It was the most intense thrill of my life, and I was petrified. Even then, I couldn't let it show. I stopped thinking then, a misty fog of hormones and floating unawareness creeping over me. My heart dipped into my stomach. I kissed his long, pretty neck, eliciting odd, stuttering gasps as I traveled down. Raking my fingernails down his warm, chiseled torso, guided only by stumbling lust and a very very vague notion of what I was doing. I couldn't stop. Then the fear would set in. But that didn't matter as much as something else... 

I didn't want to stop. 

His chest heaved. My hands traveled, groped in the darkness. 

Pants. Belt. The hard, heavy presence straining against the fabric. 

'I've lost my mind'. 

Somehow fear had sent me to my knees, his body pressed fully against the wall, breathlessly awaiting my next move. Not just waiting. Inviting. Our eyes met, his face bathed in blue, looking wanton and needy. Yet somehow powerful, still a taunting effigy to my mere humanity. Poseidon and all the endless expanse of the sea. Too vast to control. Too beautiful to disregard. His eyes were glazed, dark and dancing in the fading light. He smirked, and the vision was complete. That was all the encouragement I needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A leviathan of a chapter far too long in the making. Feels good to be done. Enjoy this monster I've created.
> 
> All quotes in chapter summaries are from Moby Dick.


	5. The Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The sea had jeeringly kept his finite body up, but drowned the infinite of his soul. Not drowned entirely, though. Rather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes; and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous, God-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters heaved the colossal orbs. He saw God’s foot upon the treadle of the loom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmates called him mad. So man’s insanity is heaven’s sense; and wandering from all mortal reason, man comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is absurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised, indifferent as his God.”

Lightning.

Somewhere far off, but bright enough to blaze down the hallway, providing brief, poignant illumination. A window somewhere had let it in, just enough to send a shiver through me. It made me feel exposed, its bright gasp a reminder of just how surreal this all was. A sign, some might say. Well-timed, if nothing else.  


In the flash, I saw that his smirk was gone. A shadow had fallen over his eyes not long after.  


No revelation. Just nature taking its course, as the fitful rain began its song again.  


I took in the sight of him, all lithe muscle and tight angles. Dark over pale. Pale under dark. Looking at him made me forget anything he had done, made my heart run ahead of itself. It hadn't started like that... Everything had changed.

I didn't want to think about that. I had to redirect. I turned my eyes and hands back to what I was doing. Even with fumbling fingers, my concentration became fiercer when I found some shred of initiative and followed through with the motions I had started. His breath hitched.  


It seemed odd to me how quickly I had become familiar with his anatomy. I dared to say I even admired it. Long, lean, pale. Trimmed and clean, smelling faintly of chlorine. So fitting. It would have been a lie to say that I had not thought about it long before I had faked confidence and released it from his jeans. It had plagued me, the thought of it. It was so intimate, so lewd, and the sight of it had made my heart race when I had expected it to startle me out of whatever perturbed state I was in.  


He was so eerily perfect. Almost too pretty to touch. Luminescent and eager.  


He had a circumcision scar. A fracture. An imperfection. Somehow that was fitting, as well.  


I ran my thumb under the head. Phantom touches.  


Within seconds, an eerily tender hand wandered into my hair. It was a ghost of a touch. Pushing my still damp hair out of my face. It gave me a bit of jolt, but somehow made me feel a bit more relaxed, if only for a second. The wash of blue and gray would surely hide my reddening cheeks.  


I sank further onto my knees, at eye level with it, trying hard not to falter and give myself away. He was still, unmoving, perhaps disbelieving. I did not allow my inexperience to enter my mind. I took him into my hand, not wanting to acknowledge the sweet jump in my gut as I felt how hard he was. I laid a kiss on the head, before gathering a bit of the flesh in my lips. There was a silence, a lull until his gasps shattered the stillness. That alien thrill tore through me at that sweet little noise of surrender. I dragged my tongue along the length of it, trying to be slow, methodical, teasing.  


He gasped. Oh fuck, he gasped. I needed that sharp noise. I needed more of it.  


I took him into my mouth, not allowing time for the shock to build in me. I had never done this before. But I had thought of it for years. I had wondered about various acts in my secret thoughts. Many recently involving him. Even when one act came to fruition, another would be conjured. An endless trail of heated ideas, vague in their concept, but searing in their intensity. It felt surreal to be happening outside of my dreams or my imaginings. But not odd enough to dampen my curiosity.  


Eventually my hesitance turned to enthusiasm. Something about the act itself, as well as his soft, breathy noises made me bold. And, in a way I did not expect, excited. The way he hissed through his teeth when I dipped my head or angled my tongue just so lent me a desperate, carnal energy. An energy I could feel coiling in my gut, trembling through my legs, until I felt my own arousal stir in return. It was far too dark for him to tell. This made me feel that certain sense of power, control.  


Back and forth like waves.  


With one crashing uncertainty came another broad stroke of revelry. Push and pull.  


There was a rhythm to this, one I thought I'd found by sheer coincidence, or by piercing some veil of madness and seeing beyond. It was repetitive, almost a moving meditation, but my head was foggy, even slightly dazed, letting the action lead itself.  


It was sloppy, it had to be. How could he be responding like he was?  


His fingers snaked through my hair, sending long, dancing lines of sensation over my scalp. It's like he knew. For all our stumbling, he had an uncanny grasp of my stupid, wandering emotions. I had expected a harsh grip. A needy, lustful pulling of hair. Some disgusting part of me had even prepared for it. Craved it. I wanted to watch him crumble. I wanted to be part of it.  


But what happened was far from violent. When his lovely, broad hand glided down to my face, he let his thumb slide down the line of my jaw, caressing the bulge of my full cheek as if to verify what I was doing. Tender. Desperate. His eyes dark like the windows of his loveless, empty house. Dark like the hallway that held no family pictures, with light so sparse that he could pretend I was anyone. I could not help but pause. I let him slide from my mouth, the hard curve of excited flesh still throbbing in my hand. I had him right where I wanted him...And yet, the passion seemed so foreign, so vague. So thankless.  


Then he said please.  


The word looked downright wrong tumbling from his mouth. Truly, it had been some delusion. Some blasphemous mistake... But there was no mistaking the softening of his eyes as it fell. His thumb carved a quicker, more eager path over my lips, his hips pushing forward just slightly. Not with aggression, but with need. His cock brushing my lips with soft, but painful urgency.  


The feelings that crawled through me at the sight of such a thing could only have clawed their way up from the mouth of hell. Burning, broken thoughts. A poisonous cloud of lust. The need to make him fall apart. And a blossoming, terrifying swell of pity.  


I did as I was told.  


As if sheepish after uttering such a thing, he looked away. A breath of air pushed past his lips. Almost like he had swallowed the whimper of a small, pathetic creature and it was trying to escape. I could tell he was close, even without him saying a word. And the immediate dilemma of such a situation consumed me for a few moments. I did not want to betray my inexperience by stopping, nor did I know how I would handle him finishing in my mouth. It was the awkward, nonsensical jumble of such thoughts that caused me to pull back, to let him leave my lips with a soft pop. Still, he would not look at me. Yet, he gasped as I allowed my hand to pick up the slack.  


His end came not with a bang, but with a whimper.  


It was not loud. Not too sharp. Just a low grunt on the tail of shattered syllables. Louder at the end, then trailing piteously into silence. But his eyes squeezed shut towards the end. As if in pain. He panted almost inaudibly, in tune with my slowing motions. My hand gleamed with the briny aftermath, waiting for him to admonish me for allowing such a mess to be made. But he didn't.  


He muttered, very, very quietly, “Filthy, filthy, filthy...” But there was no venom in his words, no discomfort. They were...cathartic, breathless. Sweet, sinful, music to my ears. But it was the long sigh afterward that was the most telling.  


It was the sound of defeat. Of release. The sound of something invincible, impregnable, breaking into a million pieces. He did not look at me. He simply let his head lean back, his breath evening out, his eyes adrift. His fingers wandered through my hair with a terrible tenderness. Until his eyes came to rest on me. Cold. Dark. Aching with fondness. He let his eyes wander down the hallway. As something wet fell from them and caught the light.  


Oh no.  


I had not expected this.  


I hadn't meant to hurt him.  


I should have felt ecstatic, gleeful in the realization of the spiteful thoughts I had held so long. But that was the farthest thing from my thoughts. I had stepped somewhere so far out of line that I could no longer see where his harshness ended and his pain began. I could no longer find my own reward in all this. There was only the vague sense of being pulled out to sea. Of being swallowed by his dark presence, and yet, knowing that we plunged into the deep together.  


My anger meant nothing in the grand scale of his tiny, sad world. This empty house held his cries with its silence in an endless swell. He had led me into his lair, sang me to my doom. Yet, I could sense that, without a doubt, he had no intention of hurting me.  


He covered his face with his hand for a moment or two. He made a soft, wet noise in his throat, suddenly squeezing his eyes shut. Something in my chest twisted. The heaviness of the moment shifted my focus from lust to worry. The feeling that came after was similar to the one I had in the kitchen. Of pulsing animal lust uncomfortably pierced by the foreign softness of intimacy. A feeling of needles and fire suddenly silken and warm.  


My eyes burned.  


He looked skyward, the cover of dark just enough to shield him as he wiped his eyes. Only then did he look down at me. But there was no saving face, no more pretending. Only thunder could be heard in the ensuing silence.  


Even after all this time, there was a lingering embarrassment to what we had done. Maybe it was the result of too many after-school specials, or still occasionally remembering how strange our union was. I held my hand at an awkward angle, vaguely worried about making a needless mess. He still seemed distracted.  


“Sorry,” he said softly.  


“It's fine.”  


He swallowed nervously, then looked down at himself, still vaguely erect and newly sticky. He looked less comfortable then before, maybe even more distressed upon seeing his state. He fixed his eyes on the bathroom door.  


“I am...sorry to leave you, but I need to shower. Do you want to wash your hands first?”  


“No, it's fine, I'll use the kitchen sink.”  


He nodded, his eyes still looking a bit misty.  


With stiff, unsteady hands, he readjusted his pants, then shook his hands spasmodically. Without another word, he ducked into the hallway bathroom, and I heard the sound of the sink almost immediately.  


Again, I was feeling like I had seen something I shouldn't have. I went to the kitchen to wash my hands. I washed them twice, almost expecting him to inspect my hands later. It wasn't long before the white and yellow was biting into my eyes, and I found myself wandering elsewhere. I let out a breath I'd been holding captive, feeling a bit lost in the unfamiliar, foreboding environment.  


As soon as he disappeared into the bathroom, I was stricken with anxiety at being in the house alone. Or, at least, it felt like I was alone. Even though I could hear the rush of water, and the vague rustling of activity just a few feet away, he might as well have dissolved into the ether. It was truly troubling, the atmosphere in the house. I sat on the couch, hands shifting in my lap, and felt a sudden, familiar itch to check my phone.  


I made the well-practiced motion to grab it from my pocket. And was met with the unfamiliar knit jersey of Eddward's lounge pants.  


Oh. Shit.  


At first, I wasn't sure what sent me to my feet so fast. I was not exactly bogged down with people vying for my attention, nor did I have a specific curfew that night, being that my parents were out of town visiting my uncle. But some niggling notion had me searching the house for my phone like the whole place was burning down. It was not until I had looked up and down every inch of the kitchen that I remembered.  


My promise to both Nat and Nazz.  


“I'll text you both when I get home.”  


For a moment or so, I had a sensation of panic, worried that Eddward had purposefully deprived me of my phone. But the feeling did not last long, squashed by the far more familiar notion of not knowing where my damn phone was. I gazed at the dark corner outside of the kitchen, feeling a tingle of uneasiness as I tried to recall where Eddward had brought my clothes. I was certain he had headed that way, towards the dense, shifting mass of darkness in the corner...  


I could hear something rattling close by. Hopefully not my phone in the dryer.  


Like a child scoping out an abandoned house, I crept toward the dark area of the living area, my hand flapping blindly about looking for a doorway, listening for the sound of metal against metal. Soon, I felt a doorway, leading into a small room. I felt a sense of pressing apprehension over the unfamiliar, dark room, groping the wall for a switch, only to have the dryer screech out its mating call and send me nearly a foot off the ground. I barely managed to keep myself from tumbling to the floor, slapping the wall in unwarranted fear before accidentally flipping the light switch.  


I had a soft laugh at my own expense before scanning the newly lit room for my phone. I found it in no time, laying on the ironing board against the wall. It was disassembled, the battery and casing next to each other. It must have been in my pocket when I handed my pants to Eddward. He had probably taken it apart because it was damp. I also noticed Eddward's phone not far from my own, disassembled and in a glass bowl filled with rice. Yikes. Looked like his got the worst of it.  


“Oh, this is going to be fun...” I said aloud as I reached for mine, knowing that it would probably be the only time in my life when my phone would be buzzing out of control.  


I patted it, testing it for wetness, but found that it was perfectly dry. As I was putting it back together, I pondered the thoughtfulness of the gesture. Though I wish he had told me about it...  


I considered leaving it where it lay before, and not turning it on at all. I'd never been one to keep my phone glued to me, save for when I was talking to someone immediately or awaiting something. I was more attached to my desktop, and having constant contact with those in my immediate circle was not always desirable. No one ever seemed to demand my time when I was lonely and restless, only when I was busy or trying to sleep. Even when I directly asked, I had very few people who would respond in a timely manner. Nazz was accommodating, and always kind, but very busy. However, Nat was usually easy to get a hold of. Even if he had terrible timing.  


Nat was also far more inclined to show up at the house than anyone else. This usually involved shenanigans, or some insane scheme he'd invented within the fifteen minutes it took for him to walk to my house.  


The many memories of him stumbling into my sliding door, bringing his brand-name Nathan chaos and dirty shoes into my room were what compelled me to eventually turn it back on. He was odd, mercurial, and often annoying, but he was reliable. Everything he did, he did with vehemence. Loyal to a fault, even when his concern crossed the line from friendly to maternal. I at least owed him some sort of explanation. He was also a lot more prone to hysterics or over-reacting then Nazz was...  


I should have expected the absolute barrage of messages and missed calls when I turned on the phone. It stuttered back to life almost reluctantly, only to burst into renewed purpose with an astounding rapport of vibration and chirpy alert tones. I waited for what seemed a solid minute before it finally stopped. Taking a deep breath, I went to the messages first, knowing that the voice-mail was likely a steadily mounting list of all the ways he was going to kick my ass if I did not call him back. I scrolled through an onslaught of tumbling hysterics before finally reaching calmer entreaties.  


'Yo, your captain checking in. Since you didn't. Asshole.'  


'I'm at your house, butthead. Where are you? Someone could have stolen your dad's precious POS car, ya know. The tragedy of our times.'  


'Kevin, for real. I'mma break this window if you don't answer me. Gonna keep blowing your shit up, too.'  


'I will raze your house to the ground and say you played with matches. Open the door.'  


I imagine this was when the phone calls started. All 32 of them. Jesus.  


Just as I began to brave the voice-mail, the phone burst into life, his name bright and clear on the screen. No sense in prolonging the inevitable. I bit the bullet and answered it.  


“Yes?”  


He didn't hesitate for a second.  


“Where the HELL have you been?”  


I held the phone away from my ear, nearly deafened by Nat's mother voice. Frantically turning the volume down, I could still hear his overwrought, hen-like rambling as I pulled away.  


“...could have turned you into a lampshade by now for all I knew! I thought you'd been ABDUCTED! I have been waiting for hours outside your house watching your dad's stupid, ugly car...”  


I took a deep breath and brought the phone back to my ear.  


“Nat.”  


“Didn't even have the decency to let me know where you were! Even Marie was worried, and she barely tolerates you!”  


“Nat.”  


“Do you want to end up on the Peach Creek evening news? IN PIECES? Pieces of Kevin floating down the river like Huckleberry Finn with N-word Jim?”  


“NAT! For fuck's sake, I'm fine!”  


“Where are you?”  


I did not even have the wherewithal to lie. I just told him.  


“I'm at Eddward's.”  


“EDDWARD'S? You walked right into Eddward Gein's barn? Are you insane?”  


“Nat, it's fine. And don't call him that. Damn. The rain picked up, so we ducked into his house, and I had to take my phone apart because it got wet.”  


“Oh...Well, why were you with him in the first place? You said you had-”  


“Nat. Just stop. I'm not dead. I'm not hurt, and he's got no intention of turning me into a human sofa cover. I'll explain everything later.”  


“Like hell you will! I should march over there right now...”  


“NO, Nathan. No, you should not. You should...not do that.”  


There was a very long, stunned silence at the other end. Between his proper name and the implications of my words, I had done the impossible. Stunned him into silence.  


“Oh. Wow. You can't be serious.” Another awkward, protracted pause.  


“I plead the fifth.”  


After a final pregnant pause, his voice came in very low and serious.  


“He got abs?”  


“I'M HANGING UP. Tell Nazz I'm not dead.”  


I did not give him time to respond. I did as I said I would.  


The ensuing silence brought a sense of relief. I leaned back onto the stiff couch, the crinkling vinyl cover sticking to me. I stared at the glass coffee table, irked by its cleanliness, feeling the childish urge to prop my feet up on it. The quiet of the house churned around me. I heard the shower still going, the steady hum of electricity... I felt relief again when my phone buzzed in my hand.  


Nat. Again. Hopefully convinced of my safety and not about to hoof it over here like a mother grizzly. I opened the message.  


'Oooooh, girl. I can't believe you've been hitting that and not telling me.'  


'Nat, you're a horrible human being.'  


'I ain't judging. You got needs like everyone else. Just didn't think that you'd end up with him of all people.'  


'Neither did I.'  


'Oh, Lucy, you got some 'splainin to do when I see you.'  


'Eat a dick.'  


'You first~'  


I glared at my phone. Nat must be some sort of fellatio psychic. The phone buzzed again.  


'So what you doing now? Thought you were busy~'  


'Only reason I'm texting you is because he's in the shower.'  


'Without you? Rude.'  


'Nat, for real, give it a rest.'  


'Hell nah. I watched your dad's stupid car for like three hours, and all I could think about was what kind of upholstery cover you were being turned into. I think I've got the right to give you shit about this.'  


'Do you really think I'd go into his house if I thought he was some kind of serial killer? I'm not an idiot.'  


'Maybe I over-reacted just a tiny bit. I was worried. You've been acting weird, and it had me on edge. Guess it was a long time coming. Sorry I yelled. Won't lie, I'm sorta glad to know that this has been going on for a while. I wasn't sure what was up with you.'  


My cynical, miserly heart gave a twinge. Ugh, Nathan, I thought. You just had to go and be a good friend. I felt guilty about not telling him sooner. Even if it wasn't his business, even if I feared his reaction, even if he didn't approve...I should have known he would understand. I hadn't given him enough credit. I sighed. Just within earshot, I heard the sound of the shower turning off.  


'I didn't mean to freak you out. I just wasn't sure what to say. I barely knew what was going on myself.'  


'Oh, the time-honored tragedy of young love! One things leads to another and poor Tibalt is dead!'  


'Don't be melodramatic.'  


'I'm not melodramatic, I'm colorful~ And I wouldn't HAVE to make up stories if you'd just told me what was happening.'  


Ugh. Why did he have to be so right? I didn't respond for a while, still sitting on my guilt. He filled the silence, as per usual.  


'Look, whatever I had going on in my head was a thousand times worse than anything you could be up to. I'm just glad you're ok. You seemed so down and out, I got worried you were hardcore depressed. Or he was doing something shady to you. I didn't know what was up. Scary shit, man, don't leave me out like that.'  


Another message.  


'It's not really my place to say who you should or shouldn't date. Or should or shouldn't bone for that matter. I don't think you're crazy or stupid. Obviously you trust him, or you wouldn't be at his house for hanky-panky with your phone turned off. I don't really know what you see in him, but I'm sure people say that about me, too. If you need me, I'll be up a while. You got me curious now... We'll have a DELIGHTFUL gab session when this is all over.'  


Again, I felt that twinge. I tried to dodge it, deflecting a bit.  


'I don't kiss and tell.'  


'What's the point of kissing if you don't tell? That's half the fun~'  


I rolled my eyes, but then laughed. I didn't know why I bothered trying to hide all this, or why I was so convinced that he shouldn't know. Nat had a big mouth, but not in the sense that most people do. Even when we were young, he was a man of his word. He might have been unable to sit still and be quiet for five minutes, but he was not one to spread rumors or to divulge anything that he'd been told in confidence.  


I remembered when he'd first moved into the neighborhood, many years back... I don't remember the details, but we'd broken a few flower pots in someone's yard with an errant baseball. Being young and terrified of the home owner for whatever reason, I'd given Nat a terrified glance and fled. He took a while to catch up, likely thinking we should own up to the damage. But once we'd stopped running, I told him the truth. That the owner was some cranky geezer who would have our hides if we were within a mile when he found out. That I was already in hot water for breaking the window at the house. Like any kid, I blew it all out of proportion, words all came tumbling out, my hands on my knees as I tried to catch my breath from running...  


But he'd just put his hand on my shoulder. And, with odd abruptness, simply said, “Okay.”  


And that was all he had to say.  


He never told a soul about the flowerpots. Not another kid. Not an adult. And certainly not the old, cranky geezer who'd have skinned us alive as proof that all kids were tiny devils that needed to get off his lawn. Even when the old dude finally croaked not too long ago, and we quietly drove past the funeral procession...  


He'd just looked at me, smiled, and said, “You think he knew it was us?”  


I stared at the phone for a while, finding it hard to sum up my feelings without sounding sappy or melodramatic. If Nat were in the room, I wouldn't have to say a thing... But staring at the screen, I felt the need to say something to sum it all up. Not just monumental relief, but also overwhelming gratitude. Now that the panic had passed, and the secret was out, what else was there to say? In the end, I settled on the simplest answer:  


'Thanks, Nat.'  


'That's what I'm here for.'  


I heard the door to the bathroom open.  


'I gotta go for now.'  


'Oh, I bet you do, ya harlot. Don't do anything I wouldn't do~'  


'No comment.'  


'Whatever, ho. Talk later~<3~.'  


I smiled and turned the screen off. I heard soft footsteps coming down the hallway. I let the feelings of wistfulness dissolve, feeling the tangible weight of his presence approaching me from behind. He stopped within a good distance of the couch, the clean smell of soap and steam accompanying him. I did not look at him straight away, but I could feel some degree of hesitation just in the way his feet stopped so suddenly.  


“Is everything all right, Kevin?”  


“Yeah, just catching up on messages...”  


I turned slightly. I was at an awkward angle, but I could at least see him.  


He glanced at my hand as I pocketed my phone.  


“I apologize. I should have told you where your phone was. I did not think about it. I detest mine so, I often assume others feel the same.”  


“It's not like I'm on it all the time. I have like, three people I talk to. It's just...I told Nat I'd text him when I got home, and then when I didn't...”  


“Oh. Nathan. I forgot.”  


“My own mother doesn't worry so much. Or so loudly.”  


“He is... not too upset, I hope?”  


“Not anymore. I talked to him, told him I wasn't dead.”  


He looked thoughtful. His hair was mostly dry, covered in his signature hat. Or one of them. I admired his dark hair again, its dense waves hanging with such careless grace, even under that black hole of a hat. The silence crackled as our eyes met for a moment.  


“So, I take it that your phone was all right?”  


“Um. Yes. Dry as a bone, actually. What about yours?”  


He shrugged. “Not sure. I have my doubts, though. But it does not matter, it is replaceable. These rainy interludes have claimed several of my electronics, including the ones I actually liked...”  


He trailed off, looking strangely awkward in the doorway just a few feet away. Was he...stalling? The vinyl crinkled beneath me. His once sharp gaze seemed fixated on some dark corner of the room.  


“It's... a good thing it still works. Or else Nat might have called in an Amber Alert. Or sent out the SWAT team.”  


He actually chuckled, stealing a glance at me.  


“You are too old for an Amber Alert. But, then again, Nathan does nothing in half-measures.”  


Odd.  


Two for one, that statement. First, he knew my birthday. Not too strange, I thought. Having a birthday in high school you might as well throw up a neon marquee to go with your storebought cake and safety-pinned dollar bills. It was not so much that he knew but that he remembered.  


Second, how did he know that about Nathan, given that they so rarely associated with each other? I wondered...Did he keep tabs on people? Not directly, of course, but superficially? For years I had him pinned as an outlandish, brutal sort, the guy who taunted you openly and kept you in check by pushing you around. And on the surface level, that was true. But I could say with certainty that he was far too smart to be that blatant. And too preoccupied not to keep most things to himself.  


Given the time to think about it, and given everything that had happened, it seemed fitting that he would be the kind to...know. Maybe not deeply, but well enough. Know who was who, what was what. Finger on the pulse and all that. If I'd had this knowledge before, I'd have immediately chalked it up as more evidence that he was some sort of Poseidon Hannibal Lecter.  


But now...  


It did seem predatory, in a way. To file away a thousand dossiers of those around you, waiting for the time when their agenda matched up with yours. But isn't that what we all do, in some way?  


Again, he was a man, not a beast. And, in the end, this WAS a small town.  


I watched him stand stiffly in the doorway, the drastic lines of his profile accidentally picturesque in the low light. He glanced at me with dark, knowing eyes. I didn't look away. I wasn't sure what I was expecting. Or what was expected of me. He didn't smile, but he didn't quite look neutral either. He was considering something.  


“The offer stills stands, you know. In case you were wondering.”  


“Offer?”  


“...my room, Kevin.”  


“Oh.”  


The distance between the couch and the doorway suddenly seemed endless. What had once been a nest of ravenous, restless feelings had turned into a hard, dark sliver of uncertainty. And his own out-of-place bashfulness made my anxiety flicker again. It still didn't feel real. Even sitting on his pristine murder scene sofa covered in gross vinyl still felt like some sort of fever dream. I assumed that was what awaited me beyond the realm of notes and plastic niceties was more of the same...though the intent was far more salacious.  


Did I want to do this?  


Want? Yes. As much as any teenager would. But the caveats were as varied and scattered as the notes littering the kitchen. Then there was him.  


I didn't want to hurt him. A few months ago, I'd have paid cold hard cash to send his horny ass out of town and out of my life forever, but now...'His room' was a step beyond, even when I had come so close.  


I could just leave.  


Or gently turn him down. 

He was, despite any previous misconception, a reasonable person. He hadn't hurt me. Confused me, certainly, but that was just Tuesday at that point. But I knew now without a doubt that my actions, however mundane or drastic, would sit forever in the undertow of his thoughts.  


He crossed the dark ravine between us to sit down beside me on the couch. Not directly next to me, but close enough that our knees almost touched. For several heavy moments, he said nothing. And despite the silence, I felt a stir of emotion while watching him sit in his uncertainty.  


When he finally spoke, he sounded oddly penitent.  


“I...feel the need to apologize. This might be a bit sudden for you.”  


“...maybe.”  


He didn't bring up the incident in the hallway. Maybe he still didn't believe it either. He turned toward me, just enough for the supple weight of his leg to press into mine. He withdrew it quickly.  


“If all you want to do is wait until the rain slacks up and head home, it would not bother me. I hope I have not been too-”  


“No. I came here because I wanted to. I...let you touch me because I wanted you to. If you're apologizing for being forward, I think we're past that. By at least several months.”  


Seeing how deeply serious his face was, I felt a laugh tickle my throat. He glanced at his hands. Too dark to tell if he was blushing.  


“I suppose you are right...”  


We didn't say anything for a bit, listening to the noncommittal stir of background noise. Then, oddly enough, he laughed. The sound was like a bell at midnight. Sweet, unexpected, but somehow timely. It made my heart flutter.  


It was such a genuine little sound.  


I laughed in return, the cold, forbidding atmosphere crackling apart.  


He looked at me, a touch of a smile still just visible. Even when his usual somberness reemerged, he seemed comforted by the exchange. I felt his hand slowly glide over mine.  


“Kevin...”  


That penumbral glance... The way he said my name... Even being so close, the way he paused just long enough for my pulse to quicken...  


He leaned his chin into my neck, and my thoughts turned to a flurry of static.  


Within an instant, logic was lost in the warmest thoughts I've ever had. He poured summer into the dead of winter. Daggers of light from the surface, everything bright in a dark, stagnant room.  


His lips should have been dry from chlorine and nervous biting, fractured from cold or filled with the trembling, haunted remnants of violence and shouts and taunts.  


They weren't.  


Maybe it was the slowness of his motions or the quiet that made me pay such rapt attention, or just the anticipation of his presence... He squeezed my hand, and I felt that motion with the same flicker of wonder and intensity.  


His mouth pulled at the skin of my neck. There was another. Chin, neck, mouth. Like ascending notes.  


How can every kiss be so different from the rest?  


I trembled. My heart raced, even after something so simple.  


Too far gone, I thought. Just too far gone.  


“Okay...”  


“Okay what?”  


“Your room... Okay.”  


His reaction was mild, somber. He nodded. His grip on my hand became gentler. He slowly stood up, a dizzying array of shadows tumbling over him as he did. His hand guided me to my feet. In oddly fluid motions, I slid my phone in my pocket and followed him back. The same strange hallway, with its wavering dark lines and disturbing effigies. The same carpeted steps and awkward silence. Only this time, closing the distance to the door just ahead...  


Here I was again, standing at the threshold of knowing far too much, ever leaning toward answers that I didn't want. For questions that I didn't ask.  


Just too far gone.  


The door creaked open.  


Knowing that nothing would be as unsettling as the sea of sticky notes in the kitchen, I internally braced myself for the sight. But the initial glimpse of an eerie, indistinct mass of navy shadows was quickly dispersed by the warm light of the overhead. Like a school of scattering fishes. Whatever I had been expecting to see in the depths, be it a leviathan or a hulking shadow or something with rows and rows of teeth, it simply wasn't there. 

What I saw was just a room. Not just anybody's room, but still just another room.  


If anything, it was the least unsettling room in the house.  


It goes without saying that it was immaculately clean and well-organized. In other news, water is wet. It was a spacious room, comfortable in its furnishings and with great care taken to designate what part of the room was for any specific task. The desk was properly kitted out with office odds and ends, situated next to several bookcases along with an old library lamp. The lamp was, appropriately, labeled as 'lamp', but also bore two separate labels. One was 'date of manufacture'. The other was 'date of purchase'. Most things in the room were labeled in the same way. Not like the labels on other things here and there in the house. This seemed more personal, like a kind of cataloging or some sort of inventory management. It didn't seem like something anyone else in the world would do. It was both awkward and intimate, and even being strange, it wasn't shocking. I had expected something like this. At least partially.  


I nervously glanced at the bed. Aside from the same types of labels bearing clear dates of manufacture and purchase, there was another in the center of the headboard that caught my eye. It was comically lopsided. Amusingly, all it said, in big block letters, was 'sack.' An inside joke, maybe? It made me feel less nervous knowing he had a sense of humor. Though the sight of his bed was still daunting. I tried to swallow my anxiety. He beckoned me forward gently, noticing my hesitation.  


Just inside the room was a coat rack, which he stopped right next to with an air of rehearsal and pattern. He made a motion toward his hat, as if to remove it, but stopped himself short before stepping further in. As soon as we got to the center of the room, he let go of my hand, his gaze fixed on the floor. He said nothing for a while, looking sheepish as if the room were messy or ill-kept. But I knew better. This was hard for him. I tried to ease into conversation to make things less quiet.  


“I like it.”  


“D-do you?”  


“Yeah. It...seems like you.”  


Gazing about nervously, I spotted something on the shelf. The one thing in the room that wasn't labeled...  


“Um...is that an abacus?”  


“Ah, yes. That was _tio's_. He was legally blind, you see, so he used that to add things up. Would not use a computer. Absolutely refused to. Mother once got him a fancy calculator for the blind. It was a Christmas gift. I rather liked that thing. It had Braille on the number pad, read out the results for you. Very expensive, though even I admit it was a neat gadget. He ended up using it as a coaster.”  


I laughed, then covered my mouth as if I'd laughed at an old person faceplanting in the parking lot. He turned, meeting my eyes, and smiled.  


“It is alright, pumpkin. You can laugh. It is funny, after all. I miss that man, he was a strange one.”  


“I'm... sorry to hear he's gone.”  


“Oh, it was years ago. The man was positively ancient and he died in his own house. Though I am not sure the whiskey did him any favors in his twilight days. Either way, he went on his own terms, and he outright left me the abacus in his will. 'Make sure that Eddward gets the abacus,' he said. He left a bit of money, as well, but...”  


He looked at the floor, suddenly sheepish again.  


“...in all honesty, it is the nicest gift anyone has ever given me. I think in his own strange way, he understood me. He was...kind, but I do not think he wanted people to know that. He was fairly well off, and he always told me that money brings around people who will ask for your second kidney when they do not even know your middle name. Either way...”  


He strode over to the desk, taking the abacus into his hands and letting his pretty fingers roll over the wooden beads. After a reflective moment of quiet, he spoke again.  


“Any strange relatives in your family, Kevin? I am afraid that, aside from a few of the dearly departed, mine is fairly boring.”  


I sincerely doubted that was entirely true, but the odd turn was much better than dead quiet.  


“I wouldn't know where to start. As far as immediate family, not particularly. But once you get off into the 'dearly departed' as you would say, things get a little wild...”  


He fiddled nervously with the abacus. Like before, I had to wonder if he was stalling. 

No, if he was trying to dredge up stories of Uncle Arlis and his drunken bulldozer bender, then he was most definitely stalling. I understood how he felt. He seemed more nervous than I was.  


He replaced the abacus reverently, a pained, faraway look in his eyes. My eyes scanned the room again, letting the somber but serene mood settle over me. There was no debating that there was a certain kind of sadness in the room, one that was at the very heart of the place. But for all the starkness of the rest of the house, this room, HIS room, was a sort of island. A port in a storm. It was like a library or a cafe. 

Though it was a touch impersonal, it was cozy and familiar. It still felt a bit precarious walking around, as if I would disturb something so pristine and well-assembled if I breathed wrong. Even so, the action felt just about natural.  


That tiny moment of sadness about a random fragment of the past seemed to complete my picture of him. Much like the rest of the house, there was a certain bleak reality in this room. I could no longer draw forth the spite or the vitriol that he had once inspired in me. It ceased to exist. All I could do was look around me and marvel at the mundane. Falling into the belly of the beast and finding no bones, no siren songs, no unfathomable beasts of the deep...  


Just a shipwreck long forgotten.  


I walked closer and laid my hand on his arm. That, too, felt natural.  


You poor creature. You must be so tired.  


The struggle I saw in his eyes, all the turmoil amidst the green glassiness seem to settle when he looked at me again. He still looked tired. Incredibly so. But maybe not quite so lost. He even smiled.  


“Gotten off track, have we not?”  


I didn't answer.  


He faltered.  


“We can... be as off track as you want...”  


“I don't think we're off track at all, Eddward.”  


He visibly froze. I'd spoken impulsively, but not dishonestly. I could think of no other place that I wanted to be. Even as staggering as our conversations could be, as fragmented as our intimacy was, as uncharacteristic as his hesitance was...the thought of what might have happened if I'd just gone home was one I simply could not conjure. 

I didn't want to.  


I took hold of his hand, sneaking a glance toward the bed.  


There was a beat of quiet and his shock faded to relief, then slowly crackled as he smiled coyly.  


“Good. I like the way you think.”  


Perhaps he was rubbing off on me. When I looked at his bed, crisp and pristine, I thought it seemed a shame to disturb it. I didn't entertain the notion long, but it still felt strange to ruffle the whiteness, to disturb the clinical appearance of everything. He sat down first. Carefully, stiffly. I had never seen anyone do such a thing on their own damn bed.  


I found myself doing the same, if with a bit less reverence given what we might get up to before too long. Whatever that was. I had not even thought that far ahead. Just before my brain could go on an anxious, internal screed, I felt his head touch my shoulder. There it was again, that gentleness... Only reversed. A different kind of warmth.  


For a long while, we just remained like that, listening to the soft stirring of air in the room, the vague, warm hum of cars passing in the night. I feel his nose brush my chin, the steady rush of his breath against my neck. The way he sort of nuzzled his way toward my neck was not just exciting, but endearing. The surge of his touch only compounded the affection and arousal. He made a soft noise in his throat.  


In a moment of weakness that we shared as equals, I kissed him. Soft but deep. Crisp and bright, like the bleached sheets of his bed. He tasted lonely. He was suddenly trembling, his hands clenched, if only for a moment. Waves on the pale shore, pulled by forces beyond our control. This was how things were now.  


It was a painful kind of certainty. But it hurt less somehow the longer I touched him.  


I wondered to myself if it was possible to feel lost at the same time as feeling at home? Much in the same way that sadness can come full circle and feel comfortable, or loneliness can feel like camaraderie if one sits within it long enough? I could do all the wondering in the world, but it would not change the situation. Even with fingers intertwined and mounting, mutual heat stirring between us, the back of my brain twirled with questions. A pool disturbed by many feet.  


I waited for that one kiss to still the waters. To grant me quiet.  


He did not let me down. The last bit of wondering I did before I fell into him was this: why did this, of all the things I could do, end up feeling the most right? A simple matter, in the end, to just let go. To know that he was human and so was I.  


And that that was enough after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “See how elastic our prejudices grow when once love comes to bend them.”
> 
> All quotes in chapter summaries are from Moby Dick.


End file.
